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THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

Irving  Pichel 

PRESENTED  BY 

Mrs.   Irving  Pichel 


'• 


Arthur  W.  Pinero 


Mid -Channel 


A  PLAY  IN  FOUR  ACTS 


Walter  H.  Baker   6  Co..  Boston 


MID-CHANNEL 


Mid-Channel 


A  Play  in  Four  Acts 


By 
ARTHUR  WING  PINERO 


All  rights  reserved  under  the  International  Copyright  Act. 
Performance  forbidden  and  right  of  representation  reserved. 
Application  for  the  right  to  produce  this  play  may  be  made 
in  care  of  the  publishers. 


BOSTON 

WALTER  H.  BAKER  &  CO. 


Mid-Channel 


COPYRIGHT,    I9IO,  BY 

ARTHUR  WING  PINERO 
As  Author  and  Proprietor 


All  rights  reserved 


PLEASE   READ  CAREFULLY 

The  acting  rights  of  this  play  are  reserved  by  the  author. 
Performance  is  strictly  forbidden  unless  his  express  consent 
has  first  been  obtained,  and  attention  is  called  to  the  penalties 
provided  by  law  for  any  infringements  of  his  rights,  as  follows  : — 

"Sbc.  4966: — Any  person  publicly  performing  or  representing  any 
dramatic  or  musical  composition  for  which  copyright  has  been  obtained, 
without  the  consent  of  the  proprietor  of  said  dramatic  or  musical  composi- 
tion, or  his  heirs  and  assigns,  shall  be  liable  for  damages  therefor,  such 
damages  in  all  cases  to  be  assessed  at  such  sum,  not  less  than  one  hundred 
dollars  for  the  first  and  fifty  dollars  for  every  subsequent  performance,  as 
to  the  court  shall  appear  to  be  just.  If  the  unlawful  performance  and  rep- 
resentation be  wilful  and  for  profit,  such  person  or  persons  shall  be  guilty 
of  a  misdemeanor,  and  upon  conviction  be  imprisoned  for  a  period  not 
exceeding  one  year." — U.  S.  Revised  Statutes,  Title  bo.  Chap.  3. 


5G 


Mid-Channel 


THE  PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 

Theodore  Blundell. 

The  Honble.  Peter  Mottram. 

Leonard  Ferris. 

Warren,  servant  at  Lancaster  Gate. 

Cole,  servant  at  the  flat  in  Cavendish  Square. 

Rideout,  Mr.  Ferris  s  servant. 

Upholsterers. 

Zoe  Blundell. 
Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Ethel  Pierpoint. 
Mrs.  Annerly. 
Lena. 

The  scene  is  laid  in  London.  The  events  of  the  First 
Act  take  place  on  an  afternoon  in  "January.  The  rest  of 
the  action  occurs  on  a  day  in  the  following  June. 


859308 


Mid-Channel 


THE  FIRST  ACT 

The  scene  is  a  drawing-room,  decorated  and  furnished  in 
the  French  style.  In  the  wall  opposite  the  spectator  there 
is  a  door,  the  upper  part  of  which  is  glazed.  A  silk 
curtain  hangs  across  the  glazed  panels,  but  above  the 
curtain  there  is  a  view  of  the  corridor  beyond.  The 
fireplace,  where  a  bright  fire  is  burning,  is  in  the  wall 
on  the  right.  There  is  a  door  on  the  further  side,  of  the 
fireplace,  another  on  the  nearer  side.  Both  these  doors 
are  supposed  to  lead  to  a  second  drawing-room. 

On  either  side  of  the  fireplace  there  is  an  armchair,  and  on 
the  further  side,  standing  out  in  the  room,  is  a  settee. 
Some  illustrated  papers  of  the  popular  sort  are  lying  upon 
the  armchair  next  to  the  settee.  Behind  the  settee  are 
an  oblong  table  and  a  chair.  In  the  middle  of  the  room, 
on  the  left  of  the  settee  and  facing  the  fire,  is  another 
armchair  ,■  and  on  the  left  of  the  armchair  on  the  nearer 
side  of  the  fireplace  there  is  afauteuil-stool.  A  writing- 
table,  with  a  chair  before  it,  stands  on  the  left  hand  side 
of  the  room,  and  among  the  objects  on  the  writing-table 
are  a  hand-mirror  and  some  photographs  in  frames. 
Other  pieces  of  furniture,  of  a  more  formal  hind  than 
those  already  specified,  fill  spaces  against  the  walls.  One 
of  these,  on  the  left  of  the  glazed  door,  is  a  second 
settee. 

1 


2  MID-CHANNEL 

The  room   is  lighted  only  by  the  blaze  of  the  fire,  and  the 

corridor  also  is  in  semi-darkness. 
[Note .•   Throughout,   "right"  and  "  left"  are  the  spec- 
tators' right  and  left,  not  the  actor's.] 

\_The  corridor  is  suddenly  lighted  up.  Then  War- 
ren enters  at  the  glazed  door  and  switches  on 
the  light  in  the  room.  He  is  followed  by  Mrs. 
Pierpoint,  a  pleasant-looking,  middle-aged 
lady,  and  by  Ethel,  a  pretty  girl  of five-and- 
twenty.\ 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

\lo  the  servant^    You  are  sure  Mrs.  Blundell  will  be 
in  soon  ? 

Warren. 
She  said  half-past  four,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
It's  that  now,  isn't  it? 

Warren. 
Just  upon,  ma'am. 

[Warren  withdraws,  closing  the  door. 

Ethel. 
What  beautiful  rooms  these  are  ! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Money ! 

Ethel. 

I  always  feel  I'm  in  Paris  when  I'm  here,  in  some  smart 
house  in  the  Champs- Ely  sees — not  at  Lancaster  Gate. 
What  is  Mr.  Blundell,  mother  ? 


MID-CHANNEL  3 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
A  stockbroker. 

Ethel. 
Stockbroker? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Blundell — something-or-other — and  Mottram.    He  goes 
to  the  City  every  morning. 

Ethel. 

I  know  that.     But  I've  never  heard  him,  or  Zoe,  men- 
tion the  Stock  Exchange. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
{Sitting  on  the  settee  by  the  fireplace, ,]    Prosperous  stock- 
brokers and  their  wives — those  who  move  in  a  decent  set 
— don't  mention  the  Stock  Exchange. 

Ethel. 
Then  that  nice  person,  Mr.  Mottram,  is  a  stockbroker 
too? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Of  course,  dear.     He's  the  "  Mottram  "  of  the  firm. 

Ethel. 
And  he's  the  son  of  a  peer. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Peers'  sons  are  common  enough  in  the  City  nowadays 
— and  peers,  for  that  matter. 

Ethel. 

[Moving  to  the  fireplace  and w arming  her  hands.~\    Zoe 
is  a  doctor's  daughter. 


4  MID-CHANNEL 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Has  she  given  you  leave  to  call  her  Zoe  ? 

Ethel. 

Yes,  last  week — asked  me  to.     I'm  so  glad  ;  I've  taken 
such  a  liking  to  her. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

She  was  a  Miss  Tucker.     Her  father  practiced  in  New 
Cavendish  Street.     He  was  a  great  gout  man. 

Ethel. 
You  are  full  of  information,  mother. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Emma  Lawton  was  giving  me  the  whole  history  of  the 
Blundells  at  lunch  to-day.     She  has  money,  of  her  own. 

Ethel. 
Zoe? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

Dr.  Tucker  left  sixty  or  seventy  thousand  pounds,  and 
she  came  in  for  it  all.     But  they'd  got  on  before  then. 

Ethel. 
H'm!     There  are    stockbrokers  and    stockbrokers,    I 
suppose. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Straight  and  crooked,   as  in  every  other  business  or 
profession. 

Ethel. 
I   do  think,  though,  that  a  girl  in  Zoe's  position  might 
have  chosen  somebody  slightly   more  refined  than  Mr. 
Blundell. 


MID-CHANNEL  5 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

What's  wrong  with  him  ?     He's  extremely  amiable  and 
inoffensive. 

Ethel. 
Amiable ! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
He  strikes  me  as  being  so. 

Ethel. 

I  don't  call  it  particularly  amiable  or  inoffensive  in  a 
husband  to  be  as  snappy  with  his  wife  as  he  is  with  Zoe. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Snappy  ? 

Ethel. 
Irritable — impatient. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

Oh,  I  dare  say  there's  an  excellent  understanding  be- 
tween them.     They've  been  married  a  good  many  years. 

Ethel. 
Thirteen,  she's  told  me. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

Married  people  are  allowed  to  be  out  of  humor  with 
each  other  occasionally. 

Ethel. 

A  considerable  allowance  must  be  made  for  Mr.  Blun- 
dell,  I'm  afraid. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

You're  prejudiced,  Ethel.    I've  seen  her  just  as  snappy, 
as  you  term  it,  with  him. 


6  MID-CHANNEL 

Ethel. 
You  can't  blame  her,  if  she's  provoked. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

Nor  him,  if  he's  provoked.  The  argument  cuts  both 
ways 

Ethel. 

[Listening-]    Sssh  ! 

[Zoe,  a  charming,  animated,  bright-eyed  woman, 
wearing  her  hat  and  some  costly  furs,  enters 
quickly  at  the  glazed  door. 

Zoe. 
Delightful ! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[Rising.']     Your  servant  insisted  on  our  coming  up. 

Zoe. 

[Shaking  hands  with  Mrs.  Pierpoint.]  If  he  hadn't, 
I'd  have  wrung  his  neck.  [Kissing  Ethel.]  How  are 
you,  dear?  [Stripping  off  her  gloves.]  The  weather! 
Isn't  it  filthy!  Do  you  remember  what  the  sun's  like? 
I  had  the  blinds  drawn  all  over  the  house  at  eleven 
o'clock  this  morning.  What's  the  good  of  trying  to 
make  believe  it's  day?  [Taking  off  her  coat.]  Do  sit 
down.  Ugh  !  Why  is  it  that  more  people  commit  sui- 
cide in  summer  than  in  winter? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[Resuming  her  seat  on  the  settee  by  the  fire.]    Do  they  ? 

Ethel. 

[Sitting  upon  the fauteuil-stool.]  Why,  yes,  mother; 
what-do-you-call-them  ? — statistics — prove  it. 


MID-CHANNEL  7 

ZOE. 

[  Throwing  her  coat  and  gloves  upon  the  settee  at  the  back 
and  unpinning  her  hat.~]  You'll  see,  when  I  put  an  end 
to  myself,  it  will  be  in  the  winter  time. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
My  dear ! 

Ethel. 
Zoe! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
If  you  are  in  this  frame  of  mind,  why  don't  you  pack 
your  trunks  and  fly  ? 

Zoe. 

Fly? 

Ethel. 
Mother  means  cut  it. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Ethel ! 

Zoe. 

[Tossing  her  hat  on  to  the  settee  and  taking  up  the  hand- 
mirror  from  the  writing-table  and  adjusting  her  hair.~\ 
Don't  scold  her  ;  she  picks  up  her  slang  from  me. 

Ethel. 
Evil  communications ! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
I  mean,  go  abroad  for  a  couple  of  months — Egypt 

Ethel. 
Mother,  how  horrid  of  you  !     I    should  miss  her  ter- 
ribly. 


8  MID-CHANNEL 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Cairo — Assouan 

Zoe. 

[Looking  into  the  hand-glass  steadily.~\  That's  funny. 
I  have  been  thinking  lately  of  "  cutting  it." 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

But  I  suppose  it  would  have  to  be  without  your  busy 
husband. 

Zoe. 

[Replacing  the  mirror.']  Yes,  it  would  be  without  Theo. 
[Turning  to  Mrs.  Piekpoint  and  Ethel  and  rattling  on 
again.]  Well!  How  have  you  been  amusing  yourselves? 
You  wretches,  you  haven't  been  near  me  since  Monday, 
either  of  you.      Done  anything — seen  anything? 

Ethel. 

Nothing. 

Mrs.  Piekpoint. 

[To  Zoe.]  If  you're  under  the  weather,  there's  some 
excuse  for  me. 

Zoe. 

[  Walking  about  restlessly.]  Oh,  but  I  will  keep  moving, 
though  the  heavens  fall.  I've  been  to  the  theatre  every 
night  this  week,  and  supped  out  afterward.  They've 
opened  such  a  ripping  restaurant  in  Jermyn  Street. 
[Pausing.]  You  haven't  seen  the  new  play  at  the  St. 
Martin's,  then? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
No. 

Ethel. 
I  want  to,  badly. 


MID-CHANNEL  9 

Zoe. 

I'll  take  you.  We'll  make  up  a  party.  [Scribbling  a 
memorandum  at  the  writing-table. ~\  I'll  tell  Lenny  Ferris 
to  get  seats. 

Ethel. 
Good  business ! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Ethel ! 

Zoe. 

It's  all  about  children — kiddies.  There  are  the  sweet- 
est little  tots  in  it.  Two  especially — a  tiny,  round-eyed 
boy  and  a  mite  of  a  girl  with  straw-colored  hair — you  feel 
you  must  clamber  on  to  the  stage  and  hug  them.  You 
feel  you  must ! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Aren't  there  any  grown-ups? 

Zoe. 

[Dropping  into  the  armchair  facing  the  fire']  Oh,  yes  ; 
they  bore  me. 

Ethel. 
I  was  reading  the  story  to  you,  mother 

Zoe. 

The  story's  no  account — it's  the  kiddies.  The  man 
who  wrote  the  thing  must  be  awfully  fond  of  children.  I 
wonder  whether  he  has  any  little  'uns.  If  he  hasn't,  it's 
of  no  consequence  to  him  ;  he  can  imagine  them.  What 
a  jolly  gift!  Fancy  !  To  have  the  power  of  imagining 
children — bringing  them  to  life  !  Just  by  shutting  the 
door,  and  sitting  down  at  your  writing-table,  and  saying 

to  your  brain,  "  Now,  then  !    I'm  ready  for  them !  " 

[Breaking  off.']    Ring  the  bell,  Ethel.    [Ethel  rises,  and, 
going  to  the  fireplace,  rings  the  bell.']    Let's  have  tea. 


10  MID-CHANNEL 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
I'm  afraid  we  can't  stay  for  tea.     I've  promised  to  be 
at  old  Miss  Fremantle's  at  five  o'clock.     Ethel 

Ethel. 
Yes.  mother? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Go  down-stairs  for  a  few  minutes.     I  want  a  little  pri- 
vate conversation  with  Mrs.  Blundell. 

Ethel. 
[Surprised.]    Private  conversation  ! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
If  she  won't  think  me  too  troublesome. 

Zoe. 

[Rising  and  opening  the  nearer  door  on  the  right — to 
Ethel.]  Come  in  here.  There's  a  lovely  fire.  [Disap- 
pearing.]   I'll  switch  the  light  on. 

Ethel. 
[Following  Zoe — at  the  door.]  What  is  it  about,  mother  ? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[Rising.]    Now,  don't  be  inquisitive,  Ethel. 

Zoe. 

[From  the  adjoining  room.]    Come  along  ! 

[Ethel  goes  into  the  next  room.     Warren  enters 
at  the  glazed  door. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[To  Warren.]    Mrs.  Blundell  rang  for  tea. 


MID-CHANNEL  11 

Warren. 

Very  good,  ma'am. 

[Warren  withdraws  as  Zoe  returns 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
We  sha'n't  be  heard? 

Zoe. 
[Closing  the  door.]    No. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
It's  really  most  improper  of  me  to  bother  you  in  this 
way. 

Zoe. 
[Advancing  to  Mrs.  Pierpoint.]    Can  I  be  of  any  use 
to  you  ? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Well,  yes,  you  can.     You  can  give  me — what  shall  I 
call  it  ? — a  hint 

Zoe. 
[Sitting  on  tkefauteuil-stooL~]    A  hint  ? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
On  a  subject  that  concerns  Ethel.    [Sitting  in  the  chair 
facing  the  fire.']    We're  quite  new  friends  of  yours,  dear 
Mrs.  Blundell — is   it   six  weeks   since  we   dined   at   the 

Darrells'  ? 

Zoe. 
There  or  thereabouts. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
A  fortnight  or  so  before  Christmas,  wasn't  it  ?     But  my 
girl  has  formed  a  great  attachment  to  you,  and  I  fancy 
you  are  inclined  to  be  interested  in  her. 


12  MID-CHANNEL 

ZOE. 

Rather!     She  and  I  are  going  to  be  tremendous  pals. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

That's  splendid.  Now,  don't  laugh  at  me  for  my  ex- 
treme cautiousness,  if  you  can  help  it. 

Zoe. 
Cautiousness  ? 

Mks.  Pierpoint. 
Tell  me — as  one  woman  to  another — do  you  consider 
it  advisable  for  Ethel  to  see  much  of  Mr.  Ferris? 

Zoe. 

Advisable? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

Oh,  I've  no  doubt  he's  a  highly  respectable  young 
man,  as  young  men  go — I'm  not  implying  anything  to 
the  contrary  

Zoe. 
Is  she  seeing  much  of  Mr.  Ferris? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
She  meets  him  here. 

Zoe. 
Ah,  yes. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

And  he  has  suddenly  taken  to  dropping  in  to  tea  with 
us  pretty  regularly  ;  and  twice  this  week — twice— he  has 
sent  her  some  magnificent  flowers — magnificent. 

Zoe. 
Dear  old  Lenny  ! 


MID-CHANNEL  13 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
There's  something  in  his  manner,  too — one  can't  de- 
scribe it 

ZOE. 

[A  little  ruefully.']    Ha  !     Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
I  am  amusing  you. 

Zoe. 

No,  no.  I  beg  your  pardon.  {Rising  and  going  to  the 
fire.]    Somehow  I've  never  pictured  Lenny  with  a  wife. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
It  may  be  only  an  excess  of   politeness  on  his  part ; 
there  mayn't  be  the  least  foundation  for  my  suspicions. 

Zoe. 

I  suppose  every  married  woman  believes  that  her 
bachelor  chums  will  remain  bachelors. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

And  pray,  dear  Mrs.  Blundell,  don't  take  me  for  a 
match-making  mother.  I've  no  desire  to  lose  my  girl  yet 
awhile,  I  assure  you.  But  I  want  to  know,  naturally — 
it's  my  duty  to  know — exactly  who  and  what  are  the  men 
who  come  into  my  drawing-room. 

Zoe. 
Why,  naturally. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

And  it  occurred  to  me  that,  as  we  made  Mr.  Ferris's 
acquaintance  in  your  house,  you  wouldn't  object  to  giv- 
ing me,  as  I  put  it,  the  merest  hint 


14  MID  CHANNEL 

Zoe. 
Ethel — what  about  her?     Does  she  like  him? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

It's  evident  she  doesn't  dislike  him.  Hut  she's  not  a 
girl  who  would  be  in  a  hurry  to  confide  in  anybody  over 
a  love  affair,  not  even  in  her  mother.  True,  there  may 
be  nothing  to  confide,  in  the  present  case.  I  repeat,  I 
may  be  altogether  mistaken.     At  the  same  time 

Zoe. 

You  wish  me  to  advise  you  as  to  whether  Lenny  Ferris 
should  be  encouraged. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

Whether  he  should  be  cold-shouldered — I  prefer  that 
expression. 

Zoe. 

Very  well ;  I'll  furnish  you  with  his  character,  dear 
Mrs.  Pierpoint,  with  pleasure. 

[Leonard  Ferris,  a  fresh,  boyish  young  man, 
enters  at  the  glazed  door,  with  the  air  of  one 
who  is  at  home. 

Leonard. 
Hallo  ! 

Zoe. 
[Just  as  carelessly.]    Hallo,  Len  ! 

Leonard. 

[Shaking  hands  with  Mrs.  Pierpoint.]  How  d'ye 
do?     How's  Miss  Ethel? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[Inclining  her  head.~\    Thank  you 


MID-CHANNEL  15 

Leonard. 
[Rubbing  his  hands  together.']    Here's  a  day  I 

Zoe. 
[Taking  his  hand.']    Your  hands  are  frozen. 

Leonard. 
[Going  to  the  fire.]    I  drove  my  car  up  here. 

Zoe. 

You're  crazy.    [Sitting  on  the  settee  by  the  fire.]   Yot 
never  rang  me  up  this  morning,  to  ask  if  I  was  tired. 

Leonard. 
Wire  was  engaged.     First-rate  night,  last  night. 

Zoe. 
[Languidly?]    The  summit.     Lenny 

Leonard. 
Eh? 

Zoe. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint  and  I  are  talking  secrets.     Go  into  the 
next  room  for  a  second. 

Leonard. 
\_Genially.]    Sha'n't,  if  there  isn't  a  fire. 

Zoe. 
Of  course  there's  a  fire.     Things  ain't  so  bad  in  the 
City  as  all  that. 

Leonard. 
[At  the  nearer  door  on  the  right?]    Any  tea  ? 

Zoe. 
By  and  by.     You'll  find  somebody  in  there  you  know. 


16  MID-CHANNEL 

Leonard. 

[Going  into  the  room.']    Who  ? 

Zoe. 

[Calling  out.]  Shut  the  door.  [77;,?  door  is  closed^] 
Talk  of  the ! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Bless  me,  I  hope  not ! 

Zoe. 
No,    I    shouldn't  turn  him  in  there  at  this  moment  it 
he  wasn't  what    he   is — the  dearest  boy  in  the  world — 
should  1  ? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

Boy ? 

Zoe. 

He's  thirty-two.  A  man  of  two-and-thirty  is  a  boy  to  a 
woman  of — to  an  old  married  woman.  He's  the  simplest, 
wholesomest,  best-natured  fellow  living.  If  you  had  him 
for  a  son-in-law,  you'd  be  lucky. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
It's  a  relief  to  me,  at  any  rate 

Zoe. 
And  I  should  lose  one  of  my  tame  robins. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Tame  robins  ? 

Zoe. 

[Rising  and  going  over  to  the  writing-table  and  taking  up 
two  of  the  photographs.]  I  always  have  his  photo  on  my 
table— his  and  Peter  Mottram's.     Peter  Mottram  is  my 


MID-CHANNEL  17 

husband's  partner — you've  met  him  here.  I  call  them  my 
tame  robins.  They  come  and  eat  crumbs  off  my  window- 
sill.  I've  no  end  of  tame  robins — men  chums — but  these 
two  are  my  specials.  [Replacing the photographs^  Well! 
If  Lenny  ever  goes,  1  shall  have  to  promote  Harry  Es- 
t ridge  or  Jim  Mallandain  or  Cossy  Rawlings. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

[Who  has  risen  and  followed  Zo^.  to  the  writing-table. ~\ 
But  why  should  Mr.  Ferris  ever  "go  "  completely  ? 

ZOE. 

[Sjniiing.~]  Oh,  when  a  robin  marries,  Jenny  doesn't 
share  him  with  another  wren.     Not  much  ! 

[Warren  enters  at  the  glazed  door  with  a  female 
servant.  They  carry  in  the  tea  and  lay  it  upon 
the  table  behind  the  settee  by  the  fire. 

Zoe. 

[ After  glancing  at  the  servants — dropping  her  voice.'] 
I'd  better  finish  drawing  up  the  prospectus,  while  I'm 
at  it. 


Mrs.  Pierpoint. 


Prospectus  i 


Zoe. 

He's  got  two  thousand  a  year.  Both  his  people  are 
dead.  There's  an  aunt  in  the  country  who  may  leave 
him  a  bit  extra  ;  but  she's  a  cantankerous  old  cat  and,  in 
my  opinion,  charity'll  have  every  sou.  Still,  two  thou- 
sand a  year 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

I  oughtn't  to  hear  any  more.  But  you  understand, 
don't  you ? 


18  MID-CHANNEL 

ZoE. 

Perfectly.  And  he  lives  in  a  comfy  little  fiat  behind 
the  Albert  Hall  and  is  mad  on  motor-cars.  He's  invented 
a  wonderful  wheel  which  is  to  give  the  knock  to  pneu- 
matics. If  anything  will  bring  him  to  ruin,  that  will. 
[  Walking  away  toward  the  tea-table  laughingly.']    There  ! 

Warren. 
Tea  is  served,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

\lo  Zoe,  who  returns  to  her.]  I'm  exceedingly  obliged 
to  you.     You  won't  breathe  a  word  to  Ethel? 

Zoe. 

Not  a  syllable.  It  would  break  my  heart,  but  I  hope 
it'll  come  off,  for  her  sake. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
She's  a  sweet,  sensible  child. 

Zoe. 
And  as  for  him,  I'll  tell  you  this  for  your  comfort— I'm 
honestly  certain  that  Lenny  Ferris  would  be  the  sort  of 
husband  that  lasts. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
That  lasts?     What  do  you  mean? 

Zoe. 
Oh — never  mind.    [Gaily.]   Tea!    [The  servants  have 
withdrawn.     She  runs  across  to  the  further  door  on  the 
right,  opens  it,  and  calls.]    Tea  !    [Seating  herself  at  the 
tea-table.]    Are  you  firm  about  going  on? 


SUB-CHANNEL  19 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
It's  Lizzie  Fremantle's  birthday.     She's  Ethel's  god- 
mother.   [To  Ethel,  who  enters  with  Leonard.]   Are 
you  ready,  Ethel  ? 

Ethel. 
[To  Mrs.  Pierpoint.]    Must  we  ? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Now,  my  dear ! 

Zoe. 
[To  Leonard.]   Lenny,  you've  got  to  get  tickets  for 
the  St.  Martin's  and  take  the  whole  crowd  of  us. 

Leonard. 
[With  a  wtyface.']   That  kids'  play  again! 

Zoe. 
Very  well ;  Peter  will  do  it. 

Leonard. 
No,  no  ;  right  you  are. 

Zoe. 
I  stand. 

Leonard. 
Rot! 

Zoe. 

Then   Peter   has   the  job.    [To  the  ladies.]    We'll  ask 
Peter  Mottram  to  be  one  of  us  anyhow. 

Leonard. 
The  supper's  mine,  then. 


20  MID-CBANNEL 

ZOE. 

Anything  for  peace.    [Shaking hands  with  Mrs.  Pier- 
point, -who  comes  to  her?]    Monday  night? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

You're  a  great  deal  too  good. 

[Leonard  //as  opened  tJie  glazed  door  and  is  now 
in  the  corridor.     Mrs.  FlERPOlUT  joins  him. 

Leonard. 
[To  Mrs.  Pierpoint,  as  they  disappear.]   Got  a  vehicle  ? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

My  venerable  four-wheeler — the  oldest  friend  I  have  in 
London 

Ethel. 

[  To  Zoe,  who  rises.]    What  did  mother  have  to  say  to 
you  so  mysteriously  ? 

Zoe. 
Er — she  wants  me  to  consult  Theo  about  something. 

Ethel. 
Her  railway  shares? 

Zoe. 
{Nodding.]    H'm. 

Ethel. 
[Satisfied.]    Oh  ?     Good-bye. 

Zoe. 

When  are  we  to   have  a  nice  long  jaw  together — just 
you  and  I  ? 

Ethel. 
Mother  won't  let  me  out  alone  in  these  fogs. 


31ID-CHANNEL  21 

ZOE. 

Fog  or  no  fog,  try  and  shunt  her  to-morrow. 

Ethel. 

I'll  do  my  best. 

Zoe. 

I'll  be  in  all  the  morning.    [They  turn  their  heads  toward 
the  door,  listening.']    Lenny's  whistling  for  you. 

Ethel. 
Mother ! 


[  They  kiss  affectionately  and  Ethel  hurries  away. 
Zoe  resumes  her  seat  at  the  tea-table  and  pours 
out  tea.  Presently  Leonard  returns  and,  after 
closing  the  door,  comes  to  her. 

Leonard. 

[Cheerfully.']    It's  beginning  to  sleet  now.     Ton  my 

soul !    [She  hands  him  a  cup  of  tea  in  silence.     He 

looks  at  her  inquiringly.]    Anything  wrong,  Zoe  ? 

Zoe, 
[With  an  air  of  indifference^]    No. 

Leonard. 

Positive  ? 

Zoe. 
[In  the  same  tone,  offering  him  a  plate  of  bread  and  but- 
ter.]   Quite. 

Leonard. 
[Taking  a  slice.]    Thought  there'd  been  another  row, 
perhaps. 

Zoe. 
[Putting  the  plate  of  bread  and  butler  aside  and  taking 
up  her  ciip  and  saucer.]    Hell  of  a  row  last  night. 


22  MID-CHANNEL 

Leonard. 
Last  night  ? 

Zoe. 
This  morning,  rather. 

Leonard. 
When  you  came  home  ? 

Zoe. 

{Sipping  her  tea.']   After  you  and  Peter  brought  me 
home. 

Leonard. 
What  over? 

Zoe. 

Nothing. 

Leonard. 
{Drinking.]     Must  have  been  over  something. 

Zoe. 
Oh,  some  trifle — as  usual. 

Leonard. 
Too  bad  of  Theo — damned  sight  too  bad. 

Zoe. 
I  dare  say  it  was  as  much  my  fault  as  his. 

Leonard. 
\_Hotly.~\    It's  a  cursed  shame  ! 

Zoe. 
Drop  it,  Len.    {Handing  him  a  dish  of  cakes.]    Cake  ? 


MID-CHANNEL  23 

Leonard. 
{Putting  his  empty  cup  down  before  her  and  taking  a 
cake,~\   Tea. 

Zoe. 
[Pouring  out  another  cup  of  tea  for  him.']    First  time 
you've  drunk  tea  with  me  this  week.     Honored  ! 

Leonard. 

Sorry. 

Zoe. 
M'yes—  {giving  him  his  tea~)  sorry  that  Mrs.  Pierpoint 
and  Ethel  can't  receive  you  this  afternoon. 

Leonard. 
{After  a  pause,  uncomfortably.']  Mrs.  Pierpoint  been  tell- 
ing you  anything  about  me? 

Zoe. 
Mentioned  that  you  frequently  turn  up  in  Sloane  Street 
at  tea  time. 

Leonard. 
There's  a  man  down  that  way  who's  frightfully  gone 
on  my  wheel. 

Zoe. 
{Drinking.]    Indeed? 

Leonard. 
My  great  difficulty,  you  know,  is  to  get  it  on  to  the 
market. 

Zoe. 
India-rubber  people  opposing  you,  I  expect. 


24  MID-CHANNEL 

Leonard. 
Tooth  and  nail. 

Zoe. 

[Nibbling  a  cake.~\  And  the  man  who  lives  Sloane 
Street  way ? 

Leonard. 
Very  influential  chap. 

Zoe. 
Capitalist? 

Leonard. 
Millionaire. 

Zoe. 

H'm  !  And  when  you've  down  Sloane  Street  way,  do 
you  take  your  flowers  to  Miss  Pierpoint,  or  does  your  flo- 
rist send  them  ? 

[Again  there  is  silence.  He  lays  his  cup  down, 
leaves  her  side,  and  produces  his  cigarette-case. 
Sticking  a  cigarette  between  his  lips,  he  is  about 
to  close  the  case  when  she  rises  and  takes  a  cig- 
arttte  from  it.  She  moves  to  the  fireplace,  light- 
ing her  cigarette  with  a  match  from  a  box  at- 
tached io  a  gold  chatelaine  hanging  from  her 
waist.  He  seats  himself  in  the  chair  facing  the 
fire  and  lights  his  own  cigarette. 

Leonard. 
[Moodily.~\  I  don't  want  to  marry,  Zoe. 

Zoe. 

There's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't,  if  you  feel  dis- 
posed to  ;  but  you  needn't  be  a  sneak  about  it. 


MID-CHANNEL  25 

Leonard. 

The  aunt's  pitching  into  me  again  like  billy-oh.  High 
time  I  settled  down — high  time  I  became  a  reputable 
member  of  society  !  I  ask  you,  what  the  deuce  have  I 
ever  done  that's  particularly  disreputable?  Then  come 
two  verses  of  Scripture 

Zoe. 

[Advancing  to  him.]  She  hasn't  ordered  you  to  be  un- 
derhanded with  your  best  friends,  I  assume? 

Leonard. 
I'm  not  underhanded. 

Zoe. 
Why  this  concealment,  then  ? 

Leonard. 

There's  no  concealment  ;  there's  nothing  to  conceal ; 
I  give  you  my  word  there  isn't.  I — I  haven't  made  up 
my  mind  one  way  or  the  other. 

Zoe. 
\_lVitheringly.~]  You're  weighing  the  question  ! 

Leonard. 

Very  well  ;  I'm  weighing  it,  if  you  like.  {Flinging  the 
end  of  his  match  into  the  fireplace  and  jumping  up. ~\  Con- 
found it  all !  Mayn't  a  man  send  a  basket  or  two  of  rot- 
ten flowers  to  a  girl  without  having  his  special  license 
bought  for  him  by  meddling  people? 

Zoe. 
Thank  you. 


26  MID-CHANNEL 

Leonard. 

I  don't  mean  you,  Zoe.  You  know  I  don't  mean  you. 
{Pacing  the  room.']  Ethel — Miss  Pierpoint — is  a  charming 
girl,  but  I'm  no  more  in  love  with  her  than  I  am  with  my 
old  hat. 

Zoe. 
Then  you  oughtn't  to  pay  her  marked  attention. 

Leonard. 

I'm  not  paying  her  marked  attention.  [Zoe  shrugs  her 
shoulders.']  If  Mrs.  Pierpoint  says  I've  been  making  love 
to  her  daughter 

Zoe. 
She  has  said  nothing  of  the  kind. 

Leonard. 

[Sitting  in  the  chair  before  the  writing-table,  in  a  huff.] 
That's  all  right.  Pity  she  can't  hold  her  tongue  over 
trifles. 

[There  is  another  pause.  Then,  partly  kneeling 
upon  the  chair  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and 
resting  her  elbow  on  the  back  of  it,  Zoe  softens. 

Zoe. 

[Making  rings  with  her  cigarette  smoke.]  Don't  be 
wild,  Len.  I  was  only  vexed  with  you  for  not  consulting 
me.  It  would  hurt  my  feelings  dreadfully  if  you  got  en- 
gaged to  anybody   on  the  sly.      Len [He  turns  to 

her,  but  with  his  head  down.]  She  is  a  charming  girl. 
I'm  not  surprised  at  your  being  spoons  on  her.  If  I  were 
a  man,  she's  just  the  sort  of  girl  I'd  marry,  if  I  were  on 
the  lookout  for  a  wife. 


MID-CHANNEL  27 

Leonard. 

Tin  a  low  voice.~\  Perhaps  I  have  made  myself  a  bit  of 
an  ass  over  her,  Zoe.  [She  laughs  lightly.  He  raises  his 
eyes]    Zoe 

Zoe. 
Well  ? 

Leonard. 
[Gazing  at  Zoe.]    Do  you  know  that  she  reminds  me 
very  often  of  you? 

Zoe. 
She  !    I'm  old  enough  to  be  her  grandmother. 

Leonard. 
Oh,  hang  that !     She's  got  hold  of  a  lot  of  your  odd  lit- 
tle tricks — a  lot  of  'em. 

Zoe. 
She's  been  with  me  a  goodish  deal  lately. 

Leonard. 

That's  it;  and  she  has  the  most  enormous  admiration 
for  you — enormous. 

Zoe. 
She's  a  dear. 

Leonard. 

[Gently  hitting  his  knee  with  his  fist.~\  I've  thought  of 
all  that  when  I've  been  worrying  it  out  in  my  mind. 

Zoe. 
Thought  of  all  what  ? 

Leonard. 
That  you'd  always  be  pals,  you  two — close  pals. 


28  MID-CHANNEL 

Zoe. 
If  she  became  Mrs.  Lenny  ? 

Leonard. 
[Nodding.']   And  so,  if  I  did  screw  myself  up  to— to 
speaking  to  her,  it  wouldn't  make  the  least  difference  to 
our  friendship — yours  and  mine. 

Zoe. 
No  difference ! 

Leonard. 
I  should  still  be  your  tame  robin. 

Zoe. 
Ah,  no  ;  don't  make  that  mistake,  Len. 

Leonard. 
Mistake  ? 

Zoe. 
[Shaking  her  head.']    It  never  works.     I've  seen  similar 
cases  over  and  over  again.     There's  any  amount  of  gush 
at  the  start,  between  the  young  wife  and  the  husband's 
women-pals  ;  but  the  end  is  always  the  same. 

Leonard. 
The  end? 

Zoe. 
Gradually    the    wife    draws   the  husband  away.     She 
manages   it   somehow.     We   have  a  gift  for  it.     I  did  it 
myself  when  I  married  Theo. 

Leonard. 
[Rising  and  walking  about.']     If  I  believed  what  you 
say,  Zoe,  I'd  never  size  up  a  girl  with  a  view  to  marrying 
as  long  as  I  live. 


MID-CHANNEL  29 

Zoe. 

\Teasingly.]  You're  a  vain  creature.  I've  plenty  of 
other  boys,  Len,  to  fill  your  place. 

Leonard. 
{Not  heeding  her.']     If  things  were  smoother  with  you 
and  Theo,  one  mightn't  hesitate  half  as  much. 

Zoe. 

There's  Peter  Mottram,  Gus  Hedmont,  Harry  Estridge, 
Claud  Lowenstein 

Leonard. 
As  it  is— Great  Scot! — I'm  a  brute  even  to  think  of 
taking  the  risk. 

Zoe. 
Cossy  Rawlings,  Jim  Mallandain,  Robby  Relf 

Leonard. 

{Stopping  in  his  walk.]  Yes,  but  my  friendship's  more 
to  you  than  the  friendship  of  most  of  those  other  fellows, 
I  should  hope. 

Zoe. 
[Making  a  grimace  at  him.]    Not  a  scrap. 

Leonard. 

\His  brow  darkening.]  You  told  me  once  I  was  your 
favorite. 

Zoe. 
•  My  chaff;  I've  no  favorite. 

Leonard. 

{Laying  the  remains  of  his  cigarette  upon  a  little  bronze 
tray  on  the  writing-table.]    Peter's  a  trump,  and   Harry 


30  MID-CHANNEL 

Estridge  and  Rawlings  are  sound  enough  ;  but  I  often 
feel  I'd  like  to  knock  young  Lowenstein's  teeth  down  his 
fat  throat. 

Zoe. 

[Blowing  her  smoke  in  his  direction  as  he  comes  to  her 
and  stands  before  her.']  You  get  married  and  mind  your 
own  concerns. 

Leonard. 
Zoe,  I  hate  to  see  men  of  that  class  buzzing  round  you. 

Zoe. 
[Mockingly.']    Do  you  ! 

Leonard. 

Look  here !  Whatever  happens  between  you  and 
Theo  in  the  future,  you'll  never  let  anything  or  anybody 
drive  you  off  the  rails,  will  you? 

Zoe. 
[Frowning.]    Len ! 

Leonard. 
I  couldn't  stand  it  ;  [putting  his  hands  upon  her  shoul- 
ders] I  tell  you  straight,  it  'ud  break  me.    [Passionately, 

his  grip  tightening!]    Zoe ! 

[She  shakes  herself  free  and  backs  away  from  him, 
confronting  him  with  a  flushed  face. 

Zoe. 

[Quietly.]  Don't  be  silly.  [Brushing  her  hair  from  her 
forehead.]  If  ever  you  do  that  again,  Len,  I'll  box  your 
ears. 

[The  Honble.  Peter  Mottram,  a  spruce,  well- 
preserved  man  of  fifty,  enters  at  the  glazed  door. 


MID-CHANNEL  31 

Peter. 
[Cheerily.]   Good-mornin' — or  whatever  it  is. 

Zoe. 

[Dropping  the  end  of  her  cigarette  into  the  grate.]  That 
you,  Peter? 

Leonard. 
[Surlily.']    I'm  just  off. 

Peter. 
Don't  apologize. 

Leonard. 

[At  the  glazed  door,  to  Peter.]   See  you  later. 

[He  goes  out. 

Peter. 
[To  Zoe.]    What's  the  matter  with  the  youth  ? 

Zoe. 
[  With  a  shrug.']    Got  the  hump  over  something.    [Fac- 
ing him.]    Tea  ? 

Peter. 

No,  thanks.  [Sitting  in  the  chair  in  the  middle  of  the 
room.]  And  how  are  you  to-day,  my  dear  lady  ?  [She 
makes  a  wry  mouth,  sighs,  and  throws  herself  disconsolately 
upon  the  settee  by  the  fire.  He  nods  intelligently.]  Yes, 
sorry  to  hear  you  and  old  Theo  have  had  another  bad 
fall-out. 

Zoe. 

[Arranging  a  pillow  for  her  head.]  I  guessed  he'd 
carry  it  all  to  you. 

Peter. 
Shockin'ly  grieved,  I  am. 


32  MID-CHANNEL 

Zoe. 
He  began  tins  one. 

Peter. 
By  blowin'  you  up  forgoin'  on  the  frisk  every  night. 

Zoe. 

And  I  answered  him  back.  I  was  dogweary.  It  was 
nearly  one  o'clock.  He  needn't  have  jumped  upon  me 
almost  before  I'd  taken  the  key  out  of  the  lock. 

Petek. 
[Demurely.]    I  also  have  been  reproved,  for  aidin*  and 
abettin'. 

Zoe. 

Serves  you  jolly  well  right.  Why  didn't  you  and 
Lenny  come  in  with  me,  you  cowards  ?  That  might  have 
saved  a  squabble.     I  begged  you  to  have  a  whiskey. 

Peter. 
[After  a  brief  pause.']    Zoe 


Zoe. 

[/;/  a  muffled  voice,  her  head  in  the  pillow.]    Oh,  be 
kind  to  me,  Peter. 

Peter. 
Why  do  you  sally  forth  night  after  night? 

Zoe. 
Because  I  must. 

Peter. 

Must? 

Zoe. 

I've  got  the  fidgets. 


MID-CHANNEL  o?> 

Peter. 
I  get  the  fidgets  at  times,  in  bed.     D'ye  know  how  I 

cure  'era  ? 

ZOE. 

Of  course  I  don't. 

Peter. 

I  lie  perfectly  stiff  and  still  ;  I  make  myself  lie  perfectly 
still.  1  won'ts\\r.  I  say  to  myself,  "  Peter,  you  sharii 
twist  or  turn."     And  1  win. 

Zoe. 
How  easy  it  is  to  talk !     I  defy  you  to  control  yourself 
if  you're  shut  up  with  a  person  who  goads  you  to  des- 
peration. 

Peter. 
Theo? 

Zoe. 
[Beating  her  pillow^    How  can  I  stay  at  home  and  eat 
a  long  dinner,  and  spend  an  entire  evening,  alone  with 
Theo?     We're  not  entertaining  just  now  ;  he  says  he's 
fed  up  with  having  people  here. 

Peter. 
Take  him  out  with  you. 

Zoe. 
Then  we  quarrel  before  others.     That's  too  degrading. 
Oh,  it's  tiff,  tiff,  wrangle,  jangle,  outdoors  and  indoors 
with  us ! 

PETER: 

You  say  things  to  Theo  when  you're  angry,  Zoe,  that 
wound  him  to  the  quick. 


34  MID-CHANNEL 

Zoe. 
[Satirically.']   Really! 

Peter. 

Really.  You  mayn't  be  aware  of  it;  you  scratch  the 
poor  old  chap  till  he  bleeds. 

Zoe. 

Do  you  imagine  he  never  says  things  to  me  that  wound 
me  to  the  quick? 

Peter. 
He  doesn't  mean  half  of  'em. 

Zoe. 
Neither  do  I. 

Peter. 

[Rising  and  going  to  the  fire, ,]  No;  there's  the  crass 
foolishness  of  it  all.  [/«  a  tone  of  expostulation. ~\  My  dear 
lady 

Zoe. 

[Suddenly  silling  upright.~\  We're  on  each  other's 
nerves,  Peter.  That's  the  plain  truth,  we're  on  each 
other's  nerves. 

Peter. 
Worryin'  each  other. 

Zoe. 

Sick  to  death  of  each  other!  We  shall  have  been 
married  fourteen  years  on  the  thirtieth  of  next  June.  Isn't 
it  appalling  !  He's  getting  so  stodgy  and  pompous  and 
flat-footed.     He  drives  me  mad  with  his  elderly  ways. 


[Soothingly.]    Oh  • 


MID-CHANNEL  35 

Peter. 
_  i 


ZOE. 

He's  sick  and  tired  of  me,  at  any  rate.  My  little  jokes 
and  pranks,  that  used  to  amuse  him  so — they  annoy  him 
now,  scandalize  him.  He's  continually  finding  fault  with 
me — bullying  me.  That's  all  the  notice  he  takes  of  me. 
As  for  my  gowns  or  my  hats — anything  I  put  on — I  might 
dress  in  sackcloth;  he'd  never  observe  it.    [Tearfully.] 

Ah !    [She  searches  for  her  handkerchief  and  fails  to 

find  it.  Peter  produces  a  folded  handkerchief  from  his 
breast-pocket,  shakes  it  out,  and  gives  it  to  her.  She  wipes 
her  eyes  as  she  proceeds.]  Sometimes,  I  own,  I'm  aggra- 
vating ;  but  he  forgets  how  useful  I  was  to  him  in  the  old 
days,  when  we  were  climbing.  Yes,  those  were  the  days 
— the  first  six  or  seven  years  of  our  marriage,  when  we 
were  up  north,  in  Fitzjohn's  Avenue!  [  Tos  sing  Peter's 
handkerchief  to  him  and  getting  to  her  feet.]  Oh!  Oh,  we 
were  happy  then,  Peter!  You  didn't  know  us  then,  when 
we  were  up  north  ! 


[Wagging  his  head.]    My  dear  lady,  we  were  all  hap- 
ier  when  we  were  up  north. 


Zoe. 

[Giving  him  a  look  of  surprise  as  she  paces  the  room  on 
the  left.]    You! 

Peter. 
I  mean,  in  a  previous  stage  of  our  careers. 

Zoe. 
Ah,  yes,  yes. 


36  MID-CHANNEL 

Peter. 

That's  the  lesson  of  life,  Mrs.  Zoe.  We've  all  had  our 
Fitzjohn's  Avenue,  in  a  sense.  In  other  words,  we've 
all  been  young  and  keen  as  mustard  ;  with  everythin'  be- 
fore us,  instead  of  havin'  most  things  behind  us. 

Zoe. 

[Leaning  on  the  back  of  the  chair  before  the  writing-table, .] 
Oh,  don't! 

Peter. 

[Thoughtfully.]  D'ye  know,  I  often  wonder  whether 
there's  anythin'  more  depressin'  than  to  see  the  row  of 
trophies  s.tandin'  on  the  sideboard  ? 

Zoe. 

[Sitting  at  the  writing-table  and  digging  her  fingers  into 
her  hair/]    Be  quiet,  Peter  ! 

Peter. 

That  silver-gilt  vase  there  !  The  old  horse  that  gained 
it  for  you  is  lyin'  in  the  paddock  with  a  stone  a'top  of 
him,  and  you're  usin'  his  hoof  as  an  ink-pot.  Those  gob- 
lets you  won  on  the  river,  and  the  cup  you  helped  your- 
self to  on  the  links  at  Biarritz  or  St.  Moritz — there's  a  lit- 
tle pile  of  ashes  at  the  bottom  of  every  one  of  'em  !  So 
it  is  with  life  generally.  You  scoop  in  the  prizes — and 
there  are  the  pots  on  the  sideboard  to  remind  you  that  it 
ain't  the  prizes  that  count,  but  the  pushin'  and  the  strug- 
glin'  and  the  cheerin'.  Ah,  they  preach  to  us  on  Sun- 
days about  cherubim  and  seraphim  !  It's  my  firm  hope 
and  conviction  that  when  we  die  and  go  to  heaven  we 
shall  all  find  ourselves  up  north  again— in  Fitzjohn's 
Avenue  !  [Coming  to  the  chair  in  the  middle  of  the  room.] 
Meanwhile,  it's   no  good   repinin'.    [Turning  the  chair 


MID-CHANNEL  37 

toward  her  and  sitting.']    The  trophies  are  on  the  side- 
board, dear  lady,  and  they've  got  to  be  kep'  clean  and 

shiny.    [Gravely.]    Now,  Zoe [She  whimpers.]    Zoe, 

Zoe [She  turns  to  him.]    Zoe,  one  ugly  word  passed 

between  you  and  Theo  last  night 

Zoe. 
One ? 

Peter. 
One  ugly  word  that  must  never  be  repeated,, 

Zoe. 
What  word  ? 

[The  glazed  door  opens  and  Warren  appears  car- 
rying a  teapot  on  a  tray.  He  comes  to  the  table 
and  exchanges  the  teapot  he  is  carrying  for  the 
one  that  is  already  there. 


Zoe. 

[To  the  man.]  Mr.  Mottram  won't  have  any  tea. 
Warren. 

Warren. 

[Removing  the  cups  and  saucers  which  have  been  used 
and  putting  them  on  to  his  tray.]  No,  ma'am  ;  but  Mr. 
Blundell's  just  come  in,  ma'am. 

[Warren  withdraws,  closing  the  door.  Zoe  rises 
stiffly,  and  gathers  up  her  hat,  coat,  and  gloves. 
Then  she  returns  to  Peter,  who  remains  seated. 

Zoe. 

What  word  was  it? 


38  MID-CHANNEL 

Peter. 

Separation. 

Theodore  Blundell,  a  big,  burly,  but  good- 
looking  man,  enters  at  the  glazed  door.  He 
halls  on  entering  and  glances  furtively  at  Zoe, 
as  if  expecting  her  to  speak  ;  but,  without  tneet- 
ing  his  eyes,  she  passes  him  and  leaves  the 
room. 

Theodore. 

[  With  a  shrug.]  Ha  !  [Peter  ,  looking  over  his  shoulder, 
sees  that  he  and  Theodore  are  alone.  Theodore  seats 
himself  at  the  lea-table  and  pours  out  his  tea  grimly.']  Lots 
o'  good  you  seem  to  have  done,  Peter. 

Peter. 

Haven't  done  much,  I  admit.  Pity  you  came  home 
quite  so  soon. 

Theodore. 
You  left  the  office  at  half-past  two. 

Peter. 
She  wasn't  in  when  I  first  got  here. 

Theodore. 

[  Taking  a  slice  of  bread  and  butter]  Anyhow,  kind  of 
you  to  offer  to  have  a  talk  to  her.  \_Munching.]  Plenty 
of  abuse  of  me,  h'm  ? 

Peter. 

She  says  you're  on  each  other's  nerves,  Theo. 

Theodore. 
I'm  afraid  there's  something  in  that. 

Peter. 

And  that  you  are  growin'  a  bit  heavy  in  hand,  old 
man. 


MID-CHANNEL  39 

Theodore. 
[Drily.]    Exceedingly  sorry. 

Peter. 
[After  a  pause.]   Theo 

Theodore. 
Hallo  ? 

Peter. 
Shall  I  tell  you  what's  at  the  bottom  of  it  all? 

Theodore. 
Well? 

Peter. 
She's  got  a  feelin'  that  you're  tired  of  her. 

Theodore. 
[Gulping  his  tea.]    If  you  knew  how  constantly  I  have 
that  served  up  to  me ! 

Peter. 
Will  you  allow  me  to  speak  out? 

Theodore. 
Don't  be  so  polite. 

Peter. 
My  belief  is  that,  if  you  could  avoid  conveyin'  that  im- 
pression to  Zoe,  matters  would  improve  considerably  in 
this  establishment. 

Theodore. 

Oh? 


40  MID-CHANNEL 

Peter. 

It's  as  easy  as  brushin'  your  hat.,  A  little  pettin' — a  lit- 
tle sweetheartin' 

Theodore. 
Yes? 

Peter. 

[Discouraged^]  Well,  those  are  my  views,  for  what 
they're  worth. 

Theodore. 

[Pouring  out  another  cup  of  tea.~\  My  dear  fellow,  if 
you'd  get  married,  and  have  thirteen  or  fourteen  years 
of  it,  as  I've  had,  your  views  would  be  worth  more  than 
they  are. 

Peter. 
Oh,  that  won't  wash.    [Rising.]  When  a  man's  sufferin' 
from  gout  in  the  toe,  he  doesn't  stipulate  that  his  M.D. 
shall  be  writhin'  from  the  same  ailment.     No,  very  fre- 
quently, the  outsider 

Theodore. 

Good  gracious,  you're  not  going  to  remark  that  lookers- 
on  see  most  of  the  game  ! 

Peter. 
Words  to  that  effect. 

Theodore. 

Ho  !  Why  is  it  that,  the  moment  a  man's  matrimonial 
affairs  are  in  a  tangle,  every  platitude  in  the  language  is 
chewed-out  at  him?  [Leaning  his  head  on  his  hands. .]  If 
you've  nothing  fresher  to  say  on  the  subject ! 


MID-CHANNEL  41 


Peter. 


[Oracularly. ~\  My  dear  chap,  it's  tryin'  to  say  some- 
thin'  fresh  on  the  subject  of  marriage  that's  responsible 
for  a  large  share  of  the  domestic  unhappiness  and  dis- 
content existin'  at  the  present  day.  There's  too  much  of 
this  tryin'  to  say  somethin'  fresh  on  every  subject,  in  my 
opinion. 

Theodore, 
Nobody  can  accuse  you,  Peter—— 

Peter. 

You  take  it  from  me,  there  are  two  institootions  in  this 
world  that  are  never  goin'  to  alter — men  and  women  and 
the  shape  of  chickens'  eggs.  Chickens'  eggs  are  never 
goin'  to  be  laid  square;  and  men  and  women  will  con- 
tinue to  be  mere  men  and  women  till  the  last  contango.1 
[Theodore  finishes  his  tea,  rises,  a?id  comes  to  the  fire. ] 
I'm  referrin',  of  course,  to  real  men  and  women.  I  don't 
inclood  persons  in  petticoats  with  flat  chests  and  no  hips  ; 
nor  individuals  wearin'  beards  and  trousers  who  dine  on 
a  basin  of  farinaceous  food  and  a  drink  o'  water  out  o' 
the  filter.  They  belong  to  a  distinct  species.  No  ;  I 
mean  the  genuine  article,  like  you  and  me  and  your 
missus — men  and  women  with  blood  in  their  veins,  and 
one-and-a-half  per  cent,  of  good,  humanizin'  alcohol  in 
that. 

Theodore. 

[Throwing  a  log  on  the  fire.']  What's  the  moral  of 
your  eloquent,  but  rather  vague,  discourses' 

1  "  Contango-day  " — a  Stock  Exchange  expression  s  the  day 
on  which  a  buyer  or  seller  "  carries  over  "  to  the  next  settling- 
day. 


42  JI  ID-CHANNEL 

Peter. 

[At  the  chair  in  the  middle  of  the  room.']  The  moral? 
Oh,  the  moral  is  that  men  and  women  of  the  ordinary, 
regulation  pattern  must  put  up  with  the  defects  of  each 
other's  qualities.  [  Turning  the  chair  so  that  it  faces  Theo- 
DORE  and  again  sitting  in  it.~]  She  complains  that  you 
don't  admire  her  frocks  and  frills,  Theo. 

THEODORE. 

[Groaning.]   Oh ! 

Peter. 

Now,  come!  Where's  the  trouble?  There's  my  old 
mother — seventy-five  in  April!  Whenever  I'm  at  Still- 
wood,  I  make  a  reg'lar  practice  of  complimentin'  her  on 
her  rig-out.  "  By  Jove,  mater,"  I  say,  "  you  are  a  buck 
this  mornin'  !  "  Or  evenin',  as  the  case  may  be.  I 
couldn't  tell  you  what  she's  wearin',  to  save  my  life; 
but  there's  no  harm  done. 

Theodore. 

Yes,  you  do  it ;  but  your  father  doesn't  do  it,  I'll  be 
bound.  [Peter  looks  glum  and  is  silent.]  It's  too  trivial ! 
[Producing  his  cigar  case.]  A  husband  can't  be  everlast- 
ingly praising  his  wife's  clothes.  [Offering  a  cigar  to 
Peter  which  he  declines.]  The  absence  of  comment  on 
my  part  is  a  sign  that  I'm  satisfied  with  Zoe's  appear- 
ance, surely. 

Peter. 
She's  one  of  the  smartest  women  in  London. 

Theodore. 
[Irritably.]    I  know  she  is.     I've  told  her  so  till  I'm 
sick.    [Cutting  and  lighting  a  cigar.]    I've  always  been 
intensely  proud   of  Zoe,  as   a  matter  of  fact— intensely 
proud  of  her. 


MID-CHANNEL  43 

Peter. 
No  more  than  her  due. 

Theodore. 
[With  increasing  indignation. .]    Good  God,  how  often, 
at  a  dinner-party,  have  1  caught  myself  looking  along  the 
table  and  thinking  she's  the  handsomest  woman  in  the 
room  !    Tsch  !    It's  a  ridiculous  thing  to  say 

Peter. 
What? 

Theodore. 
I  suppose  no  man  has  ever  been  "in  love"  with  his 
wife  for  longer  than  I've  been  with  mine. 

Peter. 
{Significantly, .]    Been. 

Theodore. 

And  I  have  a  very  great  affection  for  her  still — or 
should  have,  if  her  behavior  didn't  check  it. 

Peter. 

If  you  showed  your  affection  more  plainly,  wouldn't 
that  check  her  behavior? 

Theodore. 

[Leaving  the  fireplace  and  moving  about  the  room."]  Oh, 
my  dear  fellow,  haven't  you  brains  enough  to  see ! 
We're  middle-aged  people,  Zoe  and  I.  I  am  middle- 
aged,  and  she's  not  far  off  it,  poor  girl.  There  must 
come  a  time  on  a  journey  when  your  pair  of  horses  stop 
prancing  and  settle  down  to  a  trot. 

Peter. 
How's  that  for  a  platitude  ! 


44  MID-CHANNEL 

Theodore. 

I  thought  that  worm-eaten  illustration  might  appeal  to 
you. 

Peter 
She  keeps  wonderfully  young,  Theo. 

Theodore. 

Isn't  that  a  little  to  my  credit  ?     But  Zoe's  within  three 
years  of  forty.     You  can't  put  the  clock  backa 

Peter. 
A  woman's  as  old  as  she  looks 


Theodore. 

And  a  man's  as  old  as  he  feels!  Another  ancient 
wheeze  ! 

Peter. 

And  a  married  woman's  as  old  as  her  husband  makes 
her  feel. 

Theodore. 

My  dear  Peter,  I  don't  want  Zoe  to  feel  older  than  lier 
years  by  a  single  hour.  But  I  confess  I  do  ask  her  oc- 
casionally to  feel  as  old  as  her  years,  and  not  to  make 
herself  damnably  absurd. 

Peter. 
Absurd  ? 

Theodore. 

This  infernal  fooling  about  with  the  boys,  for  instance 
— the  cause  of  last  night's  flare-up — her  "  tame  robins  " — 

you're    one !    [Peter    rises   hastily  and  goes  io  ihe 

fire.']    Yes,  you   ought   to   be  ashamed  of  yourself,  for 
encouraging  her. 


MID-CHANNEL  45 

Peter. 
Who's  in  fault?     Because  a  man's  wife  has  ceased  to 
be  attractive  to  him,  it  doesn't  follow  that  she  ain't  at- 
tractive to  others* 

Theodore. 
[Contemptuously.']  Attractive  ?  The  vanity  of  "  attract- 
ing "  a  parcel  of  empty-headed  young  men  !  You're  the 
patriarch  of  the  group  !  [  Throwing  himself  into  the  chair 
just  vacated  by  Peter.]  The  whole  thing's  undignified 
— raffish. 

Peter. 
[Extending  a  forefinger^]    You  contrive  to  be  a  trifle 
more  sprightly  at  home,  Theo 

Theodore. 
[Moving  his  head  from  side  to  side.]    Oh,  you  will  ham- 
mer  away  at  that !     I'm  forty-six.     My  sprightly  days 
are  over. 

Peter. 
[Emphatically^]    Humbug,  old  chap. 

Theodore. 
What's  humbug  ?  \ 

Peter.       (  o-*~-\/  *** 

Men  are  the  biggest  humbugs  goin'— especially  to  them- 
selves. And  a  man  of  your  age  or  mine— and  I'm  four 
years  your  senior — is  never  a  bigger  humbug  than  when 
he's  deloodin'  himself  with  the  notion  that  he's  scrap- 
iron. 

Theodore. 
You're  a  gay  old  spark 


46  MID-CHANNEL 

Peter. 

No,  it's  when  the  sun's  working  round  to  the  west — 
it's  when  men  are  where  we  are  now,  that  they're  most 
liable  to  get  into  mischief. 

Theodore. 
Mischief  ?     What  are  you  driving  at  ? 

Peter. 
Nothin".     I'm  simply  layin'  down  a  general  principle. 

Theodore. 

{Angrily.]  Confound  your  general  principles  !  Don't 
be  an  ass. 

Peter. 

{Coming  to  Theodore.]  That  stoopid  nonsense  talked 
last  night — early  this  mornin" — about  livin'  apart — who 
started  it  ? 

Theodore. 

Zoe.     I  fancy  it  was  Zoe — last  night. 

Peter. 
Oh,  it  wasn't  the  first  time ? 

Theodore. 

{Smoking  with  fierce  fluffs.']  We  had  an  awful  scene — 
disgraceful.  I  felt  inclined  to  rush  out  of  the  house  then 
and  there. 

Peter. 

Why  didn't  you  ?  You  could  have  let  yourself  in  again 
when  she'd  gone  to  by-by. 

Theodore. 

{Sullenly.']  No,  that's  not  my  style.  If  ever  I  do  bang 
the  front  door,  it'll  be  once  and  for  all,  my  friend. 


MID-CHANNEL  47 

Peter. 
[Shaking  him.']   Oh!    Oh! 

Theodore. 

She's  independent ;  she  has  her  own  income — you 
know — and  I've  told  her  I'd  supplement  it,  if  necessary. 
I've  settled  this  house  on  her  as  it  is  ;  she'd  be  welcome 
to  it,  and  every  stick  in  it,  worst  come  to  the  worst. 

Peter. 
Theo! 

Theodore. 
And  I'd  go  and  live  in  a  garret,  in  peace. 

Peter. 
You're  not  considerin'  such  a  step  seriously  ? 

Theodore. 

[Turning  upon  him  roughly.]  No,  I'm  not — not  when 
I'm  sitting  here  chatting  quietly  with  you.  Nor  when 
she's  rational  and — and — and  amenable,  as  she  can  be 
when  she  chooses.  [Clenching  his  hands.]  But  when 
she's  irritating  me  till  I'm  half  beside  myself,  I — I- 

Peter. 
You ? 

Theodore. 

[Looking  up  at  Peter.]  My  God,  Peter,  you're  a  wise 
man,  never  to  have  taken  it  on  ! 

Peter. 
Marriage  ? 


4a  MID-CHANNEL 

Theodore. 

[Throwing  Iris  head  back."]    Oh,  my  dear  fellow  ! 

[  The  glazed  door  opens  and  Zoe  enters  meekly.  Her 
eyes  are  red,  and  a  handkerchief  is  crumpled  up 
in  her  hand.  She  glances  at  the  tea-table  and 
t  onus  to  Theodore.  Peter  retreats  to  the 
fireplace. 

ZOE. 

[To  Theodore,  in  a  piteous  voice.']    Have  you — had 
your  tea? 

Theodore. 
[Frigidly.']    I  poured  it  out  myself.  • 

[After  a  moment's  hesitation,  she  bends  over  him 
and  gives  him  a  kiss.  Then  she  turns  away 
and,  seating  herself  at  the  writing-table,  pro- 
ceeds to  write  a  note.  There  is  an  awkward 
silence. 

Theodore. 
[Breaking  the  silence,  gruffly']    Er — Zo 

Zoe. 
[  With  a  sniff ,  writing.]    Yes  ? 

Theodore. 
What  are  you  doing  to-night  ? 

Zoe. 

Jim  Mallandain  was  going  to  take  me  to  the  Palace. 
I'm  putting  him  off. 

Theodore. 
I'll  dine  you  out  and  take  you  somewhere. 


[Petulantly: 

want  to  dine  a 


MID-CHANNEL  49 

ZOE.. 

No,  I'd  rather  have  a  quiet  evening  at  home,  Theo — 
just  you  and  me.  [Blowing  tier  nose."]  I've  ordered  Mrs. 
Killick  to  send  up  an  extra-nice  dinner. 

Theodore. 
Perhaps  Peter 

Zoe. 
[Stamping  her  foot.]    No,  I  won't  have  him. 

Peter. 
Besides,  I'm  booked. 

Zoe. 
I  don't  care  whether  you  are  or  not.     I 
one  with  my  husband. 
[  There  is  another  pause,  during  which  Zoe  scratches 
away  with  her  pen. 

Peter. 

[Clearing   his    throat.]    Well,     I'll    be    gettin'    along, 
[Theodore  rises.]    I  say 

Theodore. 
H'm? 

Peter. 
Why  don't  you  and  Zoe  have  a  week  or  a  fortnight  in 
Paris?     It  'ud  do  you  both  a  heap  of  good. 

Theodore. 
Impossible.     How  can  I  ? 

Peter. 
Cert'nly  you  can.     If  anythin'  important  crops  up,  Tom 
Slade  or  I  will  run  over  to  you  ;  or  you  could  come  back. 


50  MID-CHANNEL 

[Again  there  is  a  pause.  .  Zoe  stops  writing.]    Do,  old 
chap.    [Another pause.]    Won't  you? 

Theodoke. 

[Without  enthusiasm.]    All  right. 

Peter. 

A  fortnight?     Nothin'll  happen. 

Theodore. 
[Nodding.]   A  fortnight. 

[Uttering  a  little  chirp  of  delight,  Zoe  resumes 
writing.  Peter  goes  to  her  as  Theodore 
moves  away  to  the  fireplace. 

Peter. 

[To  Zoe.]  Good-bye,  ma'am.  [She  gives  him  her  left 
hand  over  her  shoulder.  He  squeezes  it  and  makes  for  the 
glazed  door.  There  he  appears  to  be  struck  by  an  idea. 
After  a  silence,  he  turns  slowly,  contemplates  the  pair  for  a 
moment  with  a  puckered  brow,  and  advances  a  step  or  two.] 
Theo 

Theodore. 

[  Who  has  picked  up  one  of  the  illustrated  papers  and  has 
seated  himself  upon  the  settee.]    H'm  ? 

Peter. 

[His  hands  in  his  pockets,  rattling  his  keys.]  About 
half-way  between  Dover  and  Calais — no,  it's  between 
Folkestone  and  Boulogne,  ain't  it? 

Theodore. 
[Examining  the  pictures.  ]    What  ? 

Peter. 

Of  course  !  About  half-way  between  Folkestone  and 
Boulogne — mid-Channel — there's  a  shoal. 


MID-CHANNEL  51 

Theodore. 
[  Turning  a  page  of  his  paper.  ]    What  of  it  ? 

Peter. 

Le  Colbart,  the  French  sailormen  call  it — Le  Colbart. 
We  call  it  the  Ridge.  [Coming forward.]  If  you  go  by 
Folkestone  and  Boulogne,  you'll  pass  over  it. 

Theodore. 

[Glancing  at  him  suspiciously.']  Thanks  for  the  valuable 
information. 

Peter. 

D'ye  know,  I've  never  encountered  that  blessed  shoal 
without  experiencin'  a  most  unpleasant  time  ? 

Zoe. 
[Addressing  an  envelope.]   Oh,  my  dear  Peter ! 

Peter. 

I've  crossed  on  some  of  the  finest  days  o'  the  year. 
The  sun's  been  shinin',  and  outside  the  harbor  the  water's 
been  as  smooth  as  it's  been  wside.  Everythin's  looked 
as  enticin'  as  could  be  ;  but  as  we've  neared  the  Ridge — 
mid-Channel — I've  begun  to  feel  fidgety,  restless,  out  o' 
sorts — hatin'  myself  and  hatin'  the  man  who's  been  sharin' 
my  cabin  with  me.     But  the  sensation  hasn't  lasted  long. 

Zoe. 
[Sealing  her  le  Iter.]    Glad  to  hear  it. 

Peter. 

No  ;  gradually  the  beastly  motion  has  died  down,  and 
in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  so  I've  found  myself  pacin'  the 
deck  again,  arm-in-arm  with  the  travelin'-companion  I've 
been  positively  loathin'  a  few  minutes  earlier. 


52  MID-CHANNEL 

Theodore. 
[Gaping  demonstratively .]    Very  interesting. 

Peter. 

My  dear  pals,  I  remember  the  idea  once  occurrin'  to 
me — I  mentioned  it  to  Charlie  Westbrook  at  the  time — 
there's  a  resemblance  between  that  and  marriage. 

Theodore. 

[Shortly.]    Ha  !     Thought  that  was  coming. 

[Zoe  turns  in  her  chair,  to  listen  to  Peter. 

Peter. 

Yes,  and  marriage,  mark  you,  at  its  best  and  brightest. 
The  happiest  and  luckiest  of  married  couples  have  got  to 
cross  that  wretched  Ridge.  However  successful  the  first 
half  of  their  journey  may  be,  there's  the  rough-and-tum- 
ble of  mid-Channel  to  negotiate.  Some  arrive  there 
quicker  than  others,  some  later  ;  it  depends  on  wind  and 
tide.  But  they  get  there  ;  and  a  bad  time  it  is,  and  must 
be — a  time  when  travelin'-companions  see  nothin'  but  the 
spots  on  each  other's  yellow  faces,  and  when  innoomera- 
ble  kind  words  and  innoomerable  kind  acts  are  clean  for- 
gotten. [Zoe,  her  letter  in  her  hand,  rises  impulsively  and 
comes  to  Peter.]  But,  as  I  tell  you,  it's  soon  over—  well 
over,  if  only  Mr.  Jack  and  Mrs.  Jill  will  understand  the 
situation  ;  if  only  they'll  say  to  themselves,  *'  We're  on 
the  Ridge  ;  we're  in  mid-Channel  ;  in  another  quarter 
of  an  hour  the  boat' 11  be  steady  again — as  steady  as  when 
we  stepped  on  to  the  gangway."  [To  Theodore.]  Not 
offended,  old  man? 

Theodore. 
[Uncomfortably.]    Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 


MID-CHANNEL  53 

ZOE. 

{Gently,  giving  her  letter  to  Peter.]   Tell  Warren  togive 

that  to  a  messenger  boy.    [  To  Theodore.]    Theo ! 

[She  puts  her  hands  upon  Peter's  shoulders  and 
kisses  him. 

Peter. 

[Chuckling.}    Ha,  ha!    [To  Theodore.]    Division  of 
profits.    [At  the  glazed  door.}    When'll  you  be  off? 

Theodore. 
Oh — one  day  next  week. 

Peter. 

[Nodding.]   To-morrow  mornin",  then. 

[He  goes  out,  closing  the  door. 

Zoe. 
Dear  old  Peter ! 

Theodore. 
[Deep  in  his  paper.]    Peter's  getting  a  bit  of  a  bore, 
though. 

Zoe. 
[Mimicking    Peter,    as    she    wipes    her  eyes.]     He's 
amusin'.    [Going  to  Theodore  and  seating  herself  beside 

him.]   Theo 

Theodore. 
H'm? 

Zoe. 
[Edging  up  to  him.]    Let's  go   by   Folkestone   and 
Boulogne — shall  we? 

Theodore. 
/  don't  mind. 


54  MID-CHANNEL 

Zoe. 

[Wistfully.]  Let's  go  by  Folkestone  and  Boulogne — 
and  have  done  with  it.  [Slipping  her  arm  through  his.] 
Theo — last  night — sorry.  [He  nods  and  looks  at  another 
pictured]  I  take  it  all  back — the  things  I  said.  I  didn't 
mean  them. 

Theodore. 
That's  all  right. 

Zoe. 

And  you  didn't  mean ? 

Theodore. 
\_Impatiently.~]    Of  course  I  didn't. 

Zoe. 

[Giving  herself  a  shake.]  Ah!  [After  a  brief  pause.] 
Theo 

Theodore. 
H'm? 

Zoe. 

[Taking  the  paper  from  him  playfully.]    Don't  look  at 
"those  improper  young  ladies.    [Coaxingly.]    Couldn't  you 
manage  to  get  away  on  Sunday  ? 

Theodore. 
Oh— I  might. 

Zoe. 

It's  your  treat  to  me,  isn't  it — and  the  beginning  of 
better  times  ?     The  sooner  we  begin  — 

Theodore. 
[Nodding.]   You  shall  have  it  all  your  own  way. 


MID-CHANNEL  55 

Zoe. 
[Gleefully.]   Sunday! 

Theodore 
H'm. 

Zoe. 

I'm  dreadfully  shabby.     I've  no  new  clothes.     You 

don't  object? 

Theodore. 

\_Dis(inctly.~]  Now,  my  dear  Zo— my  darling — under- 
stand this  from  me  clearly.  You  are  never  shabby  ;  you 
couldn't  be  shabby.  As  far  as  I  am  a  judge,  you  are 
always  dressed  beautifully  and — and — and  in  perfect 
taste . 

Zoe. 

Beautifully  ! 

Theodore. 

If  you  were  not  well-dressed,  I  should  venture  to  call 
your  attention  to  it. 

Zoe. 

Silence  is  approval? 

Theodore. 

Absolutely.  So  don't  expect  me — a  busy  man — to  be 
eternally  praising  your  gowns  and  what  not ;  because  I 
cannot  and  will  not  do  it. 

Zoe. 

I  won't — I  won't.  I  know  I'm  inconsiderate — [stamp- 
ing her  foot\  beastly  inconsiderate.  [Excitedly .]  Write 
out  a  telegram  now 


oti  M1D-CHA  NNEL 

Theodore. 

Telegram  ? 

Zoe. 
To  the  hotel. 

Theodore. 

Yes,  that  'ud  be  wise.  [He  rises  and  goes  over  to  the 
writing-table  where,  taking  a  sheet  of  note-paper,  he  sits 
and  writes.]    We  couldn't  get  an  answer  to  a  letter. 

Zoe. 

{Jumping  up  and  walking  about.]  Jolly  nice  rooms, 
Theo ! 

Theodore. 
[Assenfingly.~\    H'm,  h'm. 

Zoe. 
[Humming.]   Tra,  la  !  ra,  la!  la,  ra,  la ! 

Theodore. 
[In  the  throes  of  composition.]    Sssh,  sssh  ! 

Zoe. 
[Opening  the  illustrated  paper.]    Beg  pardon. 

Theodore. 

[Writing.]    " deux  bonnes  chambres  a  coucher— 

salle  de  bain — et  salon " 

Zoe. 
There's  Lena.     Don't  forget  the  maid. 

Theodore. 
Oh,  they  shove  her  anywhere. 


3IID-CHANNEL  57 


ZOE. 


[Imperatively.]    No,  no  ;  I  must  have  her  handy.    [He 
writes.}    What  hotel  are  we  going  to,  Theo? 

Theodore. 
[Writing.']    " aussi  chambre  pour  servante  meme 

etage " 


The  Ritz  ? 

Oh,  blow  the  Ritz  ! 


Zoe. 
Theodore. 


Zoe. 
We've  always  been  comfortable  at  the  Ritz. 

Theodore. 
[Putting  the  finishing  touches  to  his  telegram.'}    Twenty 
francs  a  minute. 

Zoe. 

[Disappointed.}    Where  then?     The  Elysee  Palace  is 
too  far  out  this  weather.     The  Regina  ? 

Theodore. 
[Reading.]  "  Pouvez-vous  re-server  pour  Monsieur  et 
Madame  Blundell  pour  dimanche  et  nuits^  suivantes 
apartement  compose  deux  bonnes  chambres  a  coucher, 
salle  de  bain,  et  salon,  aussi  chambre  pour  servante  meme 
etage?     Reponse  telegraphique.     Theodorus,  London." 

Zoe. 
[Advancing?}    Oh,  Theo!     Shall  we  try  the  new  Men- 
rice  ?     The  Langdales  had  a  suite  there  that  made  them 
feel  like  Royalties. 


68  MID-CHANNEL 

Theodore. 

[Half-turning  to  her.]  Gerald  Duckfield  was  telling 
me  of  a  capital  little  hotel  where  he  and  Bessie  stayed — . 
the  Vendome 

Zoe. 
Where's  that? 

Theodore. 
In  the  Place  Vendome. 

Zoe. 

The  Ritz— the  Bristol — the  Rhin — they're  the  only  ho- 
tels in  the  Place. 

Theodore. 

Oh,  but  this  is  in  the  part  of  the  Place  that  runs  down 
to  the  top  of  the  Rue  Castiglione. 

Zoe. 
The  narrow  part ! 

Theodore. 
Well,  it  isn't  the  broad  part,  certainly. 

Zoe. 

The  traffic  of  the  Rue  St.  Honore  to  help  to  send  you  to 
sleep ! 

Theodore. 

No,  no;  there  are  double  windows,  Gerald  says,  to  the 
best  bedrooms.  [Turning  to  the  writing-table.']  It  'ud  be 
an  experiment. 

Zoe. 

[Sitting  in  the  chair  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  with  her 
back  to  him.']   Yes,  it  would  be  an  experiment. 


MID-CHANNEL  59 

Theodore. 


Shall  we  risk  it  ? 

Zoe. 
[Coldly]    By  all  means. 

Theodore. 
[Writing.]   "  Directeur — Hotel  Vendome 

Zoe. 
[  Tapping  her  feet  upon  the  floor.]    Ha  ! 

Theodore. 
H'm?     " Place  Vendome " 


Zoe. 
{Holding  up  the  illustrated  paper  so  that  he  ?naysee,  over 
her  head,  a  risque  picture.]    If  you  were  taking  this  sort 
of  woman  with  you,  nothing  'ud  be  good  enough  for  her. 

Theodore. 

[Glancing  at  the  picture,  angrily '.]  Oh,  don't  be  so 
coarse  !  [There  is  a  pause.  He  leans  back  in  his  chair, 
biting  his  pen.  Suddenly  she  flings  the  illustrated  paper 
away  from  her  into  the  air.  Throwing  down  his  pen,  he 
rises  and  paces  the  room.]  This  promises  well  for  an  en- 
joyable fortnight  in  Paris  ! 

Zoe. 
[Rising  and  moving  to  the  left.']    Look  here,  old  man  ! 
This  trip  was  going  "to  be  your  treat.     Very  well,  that's 
off!     I'll  take  you  to  Paris  ;  Til  pay  the  expenses  ;  and 
I  won't  stuff  you  up  in  a  frowsy  rabbit-hutch. 

Theodore. 
[Coming forward  on  the  right.]    Don't  insult  me  ! 


60  MID-CHANNEL 

Zoic. 

[Facing  him.]  Anyway,  your  treat  or  mine,  I  stay  at 
no  hotel  in  Paris  that  isn't  top-hole. 

Theodore. 

[Furiously.']  Oh,  stop  your  damned  slang,  for  God's 
sake  ! 

Zoe. 
[Her  eyes  blazing.]    What! 

Theodore. 

[Sitting  on  the  faiiieuil- stool  and  rocking  himself  to  and 
fro.]    Oh!     Oh! 

Zoe. 
Stop  my  damned  slang  ! 

Theodore. 
[His  head  in  his  hands.]    Hold  your  tongue  ! 

Zoe. 

[Coming  to  him.]  And  how  did  I  learn  my  damned 
slang,  pray?  [He  waves  her  from  him.]  I  learnt  it  from 
the  crew  you  surrounded  me  with  when  I  condescended 
to  marry  you  and  went  out  of  my  world  into  yours. 

Theodore. 

[Starting  up.]    Oh ! 

[He  goes  to  the  bell  and  rings  it  continuously. 

Zoe. 

[Following  him.]  Yes,  you  were  hugely  tickled  by  it 
then!  And  so  were  they — the  men  you  thought  might  be 
serviceable  to  you  ;  and  who  were  serviceable  to  you, 
often  through  me! 


MID-CHANNEL  61 

Theodore. 
Oh! 

ZOE. 

Ha !  And  now  that  my  tongue's  furred  with  it,  and  it 
isn't  necessary  to  attract  the  vulgar  brutes  any  more,  you 
round  on  me  and  rag  me  !  [Pacing  the  room  on  the  left.' 
Oh  !  Oh  !  If  only  my  dear  old  dad  were  alive  !  He'c 
fuss  over  me  and  protect  me.  My  father  was  a  gentle- 
man.     He  warned  me  I  was  chucking  myself  away  ! 

Theodore. 
Oh! 

ZOE. 

[  Wildly. ~\    Why  do  you  keep  on  ringing  that  bell  ? 

Theodore. 

[In  a  loud  voice.']  I  suppose  I  can  ring  the  bell  if  I 
like  ! 

ZOE. 

You — you  can  go  to  the  devil  if  you  like  ! 

[She  goes  out  at  the  glazed  door.     As  she  disap- 
pears, Warren  passes  her  and  enters. 

Theodore. 
[Crossing  to  the  w  iting- table.]    Warren 

Warren. 
Yessir  ? 

Theodore. 

[Picking  up  the  sheet  of  paper  on  which  he  has  written 
the  message  to  the  hotel.]    Pack  me  a  bag. 


62  MID-CHANNEL 

Warren. 

Bag,  sir? 

Theodore. 

[Tearing  the  paper  into  small  pieces."]    Yes;  I'm  not 
sleeping  at  home  to-night. 

Warren. 

[Coming  to  the  table  and  preparing  to  remove  the  tea- 
things.']   Very  good,  sir. 


END  OF  THE  FIRST  ACT. 


THE  SECOND  ACT 

The  scene  is  the  same,  but  the  disposition  of  some  of  the 
furniture  is  changed.  The  settee  on  the  right  is  now 
placed  with  its  back  to  the  fireplace.  At  the  further 
end  of  the  settee  are  the  oblong  table  and  chair,  and  on 
the  left  of  the  table,  facing  the  settee,  is  the  chair  which 
in  the  preceding  act  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
An  armchair  is  at  the  nearer  end  of  the  settee  ;  and  an- 
other armchair  and  the  fauteuil-stool  stand  together,  not 
far  from  the  glazed  door. 
On  the  oblong  table  are  a  box  of  cigarettes,  matches,  and 

an  ash-tray. 
The  fireplace  is  banked  with  flowers,  there  are  fiowers  in 
vases  upon  the  tables,  and  the  room  is  full  of  sunlight. 
[Two  men— an  upholsterer  and  his  assistant — are 
engaged  in  putting  covers  of  gay  chintz  upon  the 
chairs   and  settees.      The   upholsterer  is  on  his 
knees  at  the  settee  on  the  right,  the  assistant  is 
at  the  chair  by  the  writing-table.      Lena,  Zoe's 
maid— a    bright,  buxom  woman — is  arranging 
the  furniture  in  the  middle  of  the  room.      Pres- 
ently the  assistant  proceeds  to  collect  the  brown 
paper  and  cord  which  litter  the  floor. 

Upholsterer. 
[Rising from  his  knees— to  Lena.]   That's  all  right. 

Lena. 
\ Coming  to  him.']    And  when  are  we  to  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  seeing  you  again  ? 

63 


64  MID-CHANNEL 

Upholsterer. 

To-morrow. 

Lena. 
What  about  next  year,  or  the  year  after !    [Producing 
her  purse  and  giving  him  a  tip.]    In  case  I  shouldn't  live 
so  long. 

UPHOLSTERER. 

Thank  you  very  much.    [Moving away— quietly.]    Will- 
iam    / 

[The  assistant,  laden  with  brown  paper,  advances, 
and  Lena  tips  him. 

Assistant. 
Thank  you,  miss.     Good-morning,  miss. 

Lena. 
Good-morning. 

Upholsterer. 
[At  the  glazed  door.~]    Good-morning. 

Lena. 
[  Tidying  the  furniture  on  the  right.]  Good-morning. 
[The  men  depart.  Almost  immediately,  the  glazed 
door  is  reopened  and  Warren  appears,  show- 
ing in  Leonard.  Leonard  is  gloved  and  is 
carrying  a  straw  hat  and  a  walking-cane.  He 
has  lost  his  fresh,  boyish  appearance  and  is 
sallow  and  lined. 

Leonard. 
[To  Lena.]    Good-morning. 

Lena. 
[Familiarly.']    Oil,  good-morning.    [To  Warren.]    I'll 
let    Mrs.    Hlundell    know.     [To   Leonard,    as   Warren 


MID  CHANNEL  «5 

withdraws.']    She'll   be    down    soon.     Will  you  have  a 
paper  ? 

Leonard. 
Thanks;  seen  'em.     How  is  she,  Lena? 

Lena. 

Middling.  She's  a  little  feverish,  the  doctor  says.  She 
must  have  caught  a  chill  coming  over.  [Leonard  nods.'] 
She  would  sit  on  deck,  talking  to  Mr.  Mallandain.  We 
met  him  by  accident  on  the  platform  as  we  were  leaving 
Paris. 

Leonard. 

[Nodding  again.]     She's  told  me. 

Lena. 
She's  to  remain  indoors  again  to-day  and  keep  out  o' 
draughts.    [Looking  at  a  watch  which  she  wears  on  her 
wrist  and  at  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece.]    What  do  you 
say  the  right  time  is? 

Leonard. 
{Looking  at  his  watch.]    Quarter  to  twelve. 

Lena. 

[Going  to  the  mantelpiece.]  I'm  to  give  her  her  med'- 
cine  an  hour  before  meals.  [Moving  the  hands  of  the 
clock.]  Ha  !  They've  all  been  playing  tricks  here  while 
we've  been  away,  clock-winder  included. 

Leonard. 

[Absently .]    Indeed? 

Lena. 

Servants,  tradespeople,  everybody  !  [Unbuckling  her 
bracelet.]    Because  Mrs.   Blundell  is  now  on  her  own.  1 


66  MID-CHANNEL 

s'pose  they  fancy  they  c;m  take  advantage  of  her.  [Re- 
turning to  Leonard.]  I'll  teach  'em!  ["  Timing"  her 
■wafch.~\    Think  we're  getting  fairly  straight? 

Leonard. 

[Glancing  idly  at  the  room  as  he  sits  in  the  armchair 
near  the  glazed  door.~\    Wonderfully. 

Lena. 

Not  bad,  is  it,  considering  we've  been  home  only  two 
days  ? 

Leonard. 

[Placing  his  hat  and  cane  upon  the  /auteuil-stool.'] 
Capital. 

Lena. 

[Refasiening  her  bracelet^  Ouf !  The  relief,  after  some 
of  those  foreign  hotels  ! 

Leonard. 
[Drawing  off  his  gloves.]    Tired  of  traveling,  eh  ? 

Lena. 
Don't  ask  me  !     I  was  saying  to  Mrs.  Killick  at  break- 
fast— I've  had  enough  of  Italy  to  last  me  my  life.     Over 
four  months  of  it,  and  without  a  courier  !    [Going  toward 
the  glazed  door.]   That's  a  bit  too  stiff. 

Leonard. 
It  is  rather. 

Lena. 

[//ailing  by  him  and  dropping  her  voice  slightly.']  Not 
that  we  wanted  a  courier  when  you  came  out  to  us.  A 
splendid  courier  you  were  ;  I  couldn't  wish  for  a  better. 


MID-CHANNEL  67 

Leonard. 
[Uncomfortably.]    Ha,  ha ! 

Lena. 
[Laughing.]    Do  you  remember  our  losing  her  hat-box 

at  that  wretched  old  Siena  ? 


Leonard. 


Yes— yes. 


Lena. 
You    woke    'em   up   there    in   grand    style.     Ha,  ha ! 
Your  friend,   the   Italian   policeman — the    image    in    the 
feathers ! 

Leonard. 
Ha,  ha! 

Lena. 

You  did  give  him  a  dressing  !  {Sobering  herself .~\  Yes» 
those  three  or  four  weeks  you  were  with  us  were  the  pleas- 
antest  o'  the  lot,  to  my  idea.  [Going.']  Well,  good-day. 
[Stopping  again.]  Oh,  but  I  must  show  you  this.  [Tak- 
ing  a  ring  from  her  finger.]  A  present  from  her — last  Sat- 
urday— one  of  the  best  shops  in  the  Roo  Royarl.  [Hand- 
ing it  to  him.]    She  went  out  and  bought  it  herself. 


Turquoise- 


Leonard. 


Lena. 


And  diamonds. 


Leonard. 
[Returning  the  ring.]    Beautiful. 


68  MW-CUANNEL 

Lena. 
Wasn't  it  kind  of  her  !     I'm  as  vain  as  a  peacock.    [/?<?- 
placing  the  ring  on  her  finger."]    But  there,  you've  both 
been  extremely  good  to  me. 

Leonard. 
Not  at  all. 

Lena. 
You  have  ;  you've  spoilt  me  completely.    [At  the  door, 
speaking  louder.]    Treacherous  weather  for  June,  isn't  it? 

Leonard. 
Very. 

Lena. 

[In  the  corridor.]    Oh,  here  you  are  !     Here's  Mr.  Fer- 
ris— I  was  just  coming  up  to  tell  you 


[Leonard  rises  as  Zoe  appears  in  the  corridor. 
She  is  dressed  in  an  elegant  robe  of  rich,  soft  ma- 
terial and  carries  a  little  bag  in  which  are  a 
few  opened  letters,  her  handkerchief  etc.  She 
also  is  changed.  Her  face  is  wan  and  there  are 
dark  circles  round  her  eyes. 

Zoe. 

Ah  ?   [To  Leonard,  formally,  as  she  enters  the  room.] 
Good-morning. 

Leonard. 
Good-morning. 

Zoe. 
Lena,  how  charming  the  old  chintz  looks! 

Lena. 

[Who  is  lingering.]    It's  English  ! 


MID-CHANNEL  69 

ZOE. 

[Laying  her  bag  upon  the  oblong  table.]    If  we  could  all 
be  freshened  up  by  the  same  process ! 

Lena. 
{Her  hand  on  the  door-handle^    Don't  forget  you're  to 
take  your  med'cine  in  three-quarters  of  an  hour. 

Zoe. 
Oh,  bring  me  the  filthy  stuff  when  you  like. 

Lena. 
{In   the  corridor,    closing   the   door.']    Now,    don't   be 
naughty. 

{As  the  woman  disappears,  Leonard  walks  over 
to  Zoe.  She  puts  out  her  hand  to  check  him, 
and  they  stand  for  a  moment  or  two  watching 
the  door  and  listening.  Then  she  drops  her 
hand  and  turns  her  face  to  him  perfunctorily, 
and  he  kisses  her  as  a  matter  of  course. 

Zoe. 
Your  motor  isn't  outside? 

Leonard. 
No  ;  I  walked  across  the  Park. 

Zoe. 
That  yellow  car  of  yours  is  so  conspicuous.    {Arranging 
a  pillow  on  the  settee.]    Sorry  I  wasn't  visible  yesterday. 

Leonard. 
You're  better? 

Zoe. 

{Evasively.]    Oh,    more    or   less   decrepit.     {Sitting.] 
What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself? 


70  MID-CHANNEL 

Leonard. 

Nothing  much.  [Sitting  in  the  armchair  opposite  to  her.] 
Except 

Zoe. 
[Taking  her  bag  front  the  table.]    By-the-bye,  I've  had 
a  note  this  morning  from  an  old  friend  of  yours. 

Leonard. 

Who? 

Zoe. 
[Producing  a  letter  from  the  bag.]    Ethel  Pierpoint. 

Leonard. 

[Inexpressively.]  Oh  ?  [She  extracts  the  letter  from  its 
envelope  and  tosses  it  across  to  him.  He  reads  it  silently, 
with  a  frown.  She  takes  a  cigarette  from  the  box  on  the 
table.]    I  thought  you'd  dropped  her. 

Zoe. 

I  did,  in  a  fashion.  I  stopped  her  letters  by  ceasing  to 
answer  them.  [Striking  a  match.]  I  hated  calling  myself 
hers  affectionately,  knowing  I'd  been  the  cause  of  your 
slacking  away  from  her. 

Leonard. 
[Under  his  breath.]    Pish  ! 

Zoe. 

[Lighting  her  cigarette.]    What  does  she  say  ? 

Leonard. 

■[Reading  aloud.]    "  Dearest  Zoe.     Quite  by  chance  I 

hear  you  are  back  at  Lancaster  Gate.     Why  do  you  still 

make    no    sign?     I  never  wanted  your  friendship  more 

than  now — or  the  friendship  of  somebody  who  will  give 


MID-CHANNEL  71 

me  good  advice,  or  a  sound  shaking  for  being  a  fool. 
Please  take  pity  on  your  troubled  but  ever  devoted,  Ethel 
Drayson  Pierpoint. "  {To  Zoe.]  What  does  she  mean  by 
never  wanting  your  friendship  more  than  now?  [Zoe 
shakes  her  head.  He  continues  to  ponder  over  the  tetter.'] 
" — or  the  friendship  of  somebody  who  will  give  me  good 
advice,  or  a  sound  shaking  for  being  a  fool." 

Zoe. 

{Smoking,  thoughtfully.]    When  did  you  see  the  Pier- 
points  last? 

Leonard. 
About    a  month  after  you  left  London— just  before  I 
followed  you.    {Returning  the  letter  to  her.]    I  cooled  off 
them  gradually. 

Zoe. 
{After  a  pause.]    She's  a  nice  girl — Ethel. 

Leonard. 

Ye — es,  she  was  nice  enough. 

{There  is  a  further  pause.  Then  Zoe  jumps  up, 
as  if  to  dismiss  disagreeable  reflections,  and 
crosses  to  the  writing-table.  There  she  empties 
Iter  bag  of  the  letters  it  contains. 

Leonard. 
{Gloomily.]    Am  I  in  the  way  ? 

Zoe. 
{Fretfully.]     Of  course  not.     {She  sits  at  the  writing- 
table  and  busies  herself  with  rereading  her  letters  and  des- 
troying some  of  them.     Leonard  rises  and  takes  a  cigar- 
ette from  the  box.]    Poor  Robby  Relf  has  got  neuritis. 

Leonard. 
{Lighting  his  cigarette.]    Zo 


72  M1D-VUANNEL 

Zoe. 
Eh? 

Leonard. 
I  was  going  to  tell  you — 1  dined  at  the  Carlton  last 
night. 

Zoe. 
[Indifferently, .]    Oh? 

Leonard. 
With  Cossy  Rawlings.     Guess  who  was  there. 

Zoe. 
[Becoming  attentive.]    Dun' no. 

Leonard. 

He  didn't  see  me — he  was  at  a  table  the  other  side  of 
the  room 

Zoe. 
[Holding  her  breath.]    Theodore  ? 

Leonard. 

Yes. 

[She  throws  the  pieces  of  a  letter  into  the  waste- 
paper  basket  and  leans  back  in  her  chair. 

Zoe. 
How — how  did  he  look? 

Leonard. 
[Curling  his  lip-]     I  didn't  study  his  appearance. 

Zoe. 
He — he  wasn't — by  himself? 


MID-CHANNEL  73 

Leonard. 

Hardly  ! 

ZOE. 

That — that  woman? 

Leonard. 
[Nodding.']    Same  lady. 

ZOE. 

Simply  the  two  ? 

Leonard. 

[Sitting  upon  the  settee  on  the  rights]    The  two  turtle 
doves. 

[After  a  brief  silence,  she  pushes  her  letters  from 
her,  rises,  and  moves  about  the  room  quietly  but 
agitatedly. 

ZOE. 

Who  is  this  creature? 

Leonard. 

[Impatiently.]    I've    told    you — and   Jim    told   you  on 
Sunday. 

ZOE. 

Hatherly — Annerly ? 

Leonard. 

Her  husband  was  a  Major  Annerly — Frank  Annerly. 
He  divorced  her  over  a  man  of  the  name  of  Bettison. 

Zoe. 
Where's  kef 


74  MID-CHANNEL 

Leonard. 

He's  dead.     She's  been  through  a  good  many  hands 
since. 

Zoe. 
Ho! 

Leonard. 
Fred  Wishart  was  one — and  Tod  Arnold 

Zoe. 
She's  quite  young,  isn't  she  ? 


Leonard. 

Looks  a 

baby. 

Zoe. 

Ha! 

Leonard. 

I  should 

put  her  at  thirty. 

Zoe. 

Pretty  ? 

They  all 

are ! 

Leonard. 
Passable. 

Zoe. 

[Behind  the  chair  on  the  left  of  the  oblong  table.}    Do 
you  think  she's — with  him  ? 

Leonard. 

Not  regularly.     She's  still  living  in  Egerton  Crescent, 
according  to  Cossy. 


MID-CHANNEL  75 

ZOE. 

{Gripping  the  back  of 'the  chair :]  She'll  ruin  him  ;  she'll 
ruin  him,  Len. 

Leonard. 

Oh,  I  dare  say  there'll  be  a  bit  left,  when  she's  done 
with  him. 

Zoe. 

There  are  other  ways  of  dragging  a  man  down  besides 
through  his  pocket.  Jim  Mallandain  says  she's  a  vam- 
pire. 

Leonard. 
Why  should  you  worry  yourself ? 

Zoe. 
I  don't  want  him  to  come  to  grief.     Why  should  I  ? 

Leonard. 
If  he  does,  you've  nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with. 

Zoe. 
[Giving  him  a  swift  look.']    What  I 

Leonard. 

[Sullenly.']  Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean — nothing  that 
occurred  before  he  took  himself  off. 

Zoe. 

[Moving  to  the  oblong  table,  with  a  long-drawn  sigh."] 
Ah-h-h  !  [Silling,  her  elbows  on  the  table,  leaning  her  head 
on  her  hand.]  It  will  always  be  on  my  conscience  that  I 
drove  him  away. 

Leonard. 
You  didn't  drive  him  away. 


7(i  MID-CHANNEL 

Zoe. 
I  did. 

Leonard. 

You  were  quite  justified  in  doing  it,  anyhow.  He  made 
your  life  a  burden  to  you. 

Zoe. 

1  might  have  been  more  patient  with  him  ;  I  might 
have  waited. 

Leonard. 
Waited  ? 

Zoe. 

Waited  till  we'd  got  through  the  middle  period  of  our 
lives.  [Raising  her  head.]  Peter  warned  us,  the  very  day 
we  parted 

Leonard. 
[Sneeringly.~\    Peter ! 

Zoe. 

Mid-Channel!  We  should  soon  have  reached  the 
other  side. 

Leonard. 
There's  a  limit  to  human  endurance  ;  you'd  passed  it. 

Zoe. 
[Staring  before  her.~\  It  seems  to  me  now,  there  wasn't 
so  very  much  for  me  to  put  up  with — not  so  very  much. 
[Rising  and  walking  to  the  back  of  the  settee  on  which 
Leonard  is  sitting.'}  There  was  a  lot  of  good  in  him, 
really.  After  all,  he  only  needed  managing,  hu- 
moring   


MID-CHANNEL  77 

Leonard. 
[Starting  up  and  turning  to  her.~\   Upon  my  soul,  Zoe  ! 
Ha  !     You're  discovering  no  end  of  fine  qualities  in  him 
suddenly  ! 

Zoe. 
[Bitterly.]    Am  I ! 

Leonard. 

You  hadn't  a  decent  word  for  him  when  we  were  in 
Italy  !     Now  he's  perfect ! 

Zoe. 
[Facing him.']    No,  he's  not. 

Leonard. 
[Satirically.]    Sounds  like  it. 

Zoe. 

[Flaring  up.]  Neither  he  nor  you  I  You  can  be  just 
as  unkind  to  me  as  he  ever  was. 

Leonard. 

[Angrily.]    I ! 

Zoe. 

Yes !  And,  with  all  his  faults,  he  did  try  to  take  care 
of  me — to  keep  me  from  harm  !  [Her  eyes  ablaze.]  My 
God,  what  have  you  done  ! 

[They  remain  confronting  one  another  for  a  moment 
without  speaking.  Then  he  turns  away  ab- 
ruptly and  picks  up  his  hat  and  cane.  She  runs 
after  him  and  clings  to  him. 

Zoe. 

•    No,  no  ;  don't  be  hasty.     I  didn't  mean  it — I  didn't 
mean  it 


78  MID  CHANNEL 

Leonard. 
[Endeavoring  to  free  himself. ~\    Let  me  go 

Zoe. 
Ah,  no !     I'm  not  well  to-day 

Leonard. 
I'll  come  back  when  you're  better  tempered. 

Zoe. 
I  am  better  tempered.  Look  !  it's  all  over.  [Coaxing 
him  to  give  up  his  hat  and  cane.']  Lenny — Lenny  dear — 
Lenny [Placing  the  hat  and  cane  upon  the  writing- 
table,  she  takes  her  handkerchief  from  her  bag  and  dries  her 
.  eyes.  He  sits  in  the  armchair  near  the  glazed  door  sulkily  .~\ 
Ha,  ha!  Now  you're  beginning  to  see  what  sort  of  a 
time  poor  Theo  had  with  me. 

Leonard. 
Oh,  can't  you  leave  off  talking  about  him  for  a  single 
second ! 

Zoe. 
[Coming  to  him  meekly.]    I  beg  your  pardon,  dear. 

Leonard. 
You've  got  that  fellow  on  the  brain. 

Zoe. 
[Standing  behind  Aim.]   You  started  it,  by  telling  me 
of  last  night. 

Leonard. 

Why  the  deuce  shouldn't  I  tell  you  of  last  night!  Do 
sit  down.  [She  sits  near  him,  upon  the  fauteuil-stoolA  I 
can't  make  you  out,  Zo.  This  woman's  only  what  we  ve 
been  waiting  for.     I've  said  all  along  he'd  soon  give  you 


MID-CHANNEL  79 

an  opportunity  of  divorcing  him.     She  completes  your 
case  for  you. 

Zoe. 
[Dully.]   Yes. 

Leonard. 

[Grumbling.]  You  ought  to  be  tremendously  obliged 
to  Jim  for  being  the  first  to  open  your  eyes — my  eyes  too 
— to  what's  going  on.  Instead  of  which,  you're  upset  by 
it.  And  now,  because  I've  seen  Blundell  and  the  lady 
together,  I'm  favored  by  hearing  Mr.  B.  described  as  a 
model  husband 

Zoe. 
[To  silence  him.']    Ah ! 

Leonard. 

[Changing  his  tone.]  When  do  you  interview  your 
lawyers? 

Zoe. 
I — I  haven't  written  to  them  yet. 

Leonard. 
You  were  to  do  it  after  I  left  you  on  Monday. 

Zoe. 
I — I've  been  feeling  so  cheap,  Len. 

Leonard. 

[With  a  short  laugh.]  We  shall  be  gray-haired  before 
we're  married,  at  this  rate.  [She  lays  her  hand  on  his 
appeasingly.  He  retains  her  hand.]  I  believe  you'll  have 
to  go  through  the  form  of  trying  to  compel  Blundell  to 
return  to  you.  Of  course,  he'll  refuse.  Meanwhile  we 
must  have  the  lady's  house  watched — or  Blundell's  flat. 


Hi)  MID-CHANNEL 

I  shouldn't  be  surprised  it  he'd  arrange  that  part  of  the 
business  with  you,  to  save  trouble  and  expense.  Drop  a 
line  to  Maxwells  to-day,  will  you? 

Zoic. 
[Obediently.]    Yes. 

Leonard. 

Or  ring  them  up.  You'll  be  able  to  get  out  to-morrow 
— or  one  of  them  would  wait  on  you. 

Zoe. 
Yes. 

Leonard. 
That's  right,  old  girlie.     Kiss  me.    [They  kiss,  quickly 
and  cautiously,  without  ardor.]    Sorry. 

Zoe. 

[  Turning  to  him  and  lowering  her  voice  almost  to  a 
wh  isper.  ]    Le  n  n  y 

Leonard. 
What  ? 

Zoe. 
Don't  forget — Perugia. 

Leonard. 

[In  an  outburst.']  Oh,  yes — curse  the  place! — let's  for- 
get Perugia.  I  was  off  my  head  there.  I  behaved  like 
a  blackguard.  You  needn't  be  continually  throwing  it 
in  my  teeth. 

Zoe. 
No,  no  ;   I'm  not  scolding  you  again.    [Gently.']    What 
I   mean  is — your  breaking  your  word  to  me  at  Perugia — 
staying  in  the  same  hotel 


MID  CHANNEL  81 

Leonard. 

Weil? 

ZOE. 

If  Theodore's  solicitors  got  hold  of  that 

Leonard. 

[Rising  and  walking  away.']    Yes,  but  they  won't  get 
hold  of  it. 

Zoe. 
{Twisting  herself  round  toward  him.]    You  remember 
our  meeting  Claud  Lowenstein  at  the  railway  station  at 
Arezzo  ? 

Leonard. 
I  explained  to  him  that  my  being  in  the  train  with  you 
was  pure  chance.     I  made  that  square. 

Zoe. 

He  was  going  on  to  Perugia — to  the  Brufani.    [Rising.] 
He  may  have  been  suspicious — he  may  have  inquired 

Leonard. 
Even  that  little  swine  wouldn't  tell  tales. 

Zoe. 
[Coming   to   him.]     Then    there's    Lena— they    might 
pump  Lena 

Leonard. 
My  dear  girl,  all  this  would  be  very  terrible  if  Blundell 
wasn't  as  anxious  to  get  rid  of  you  as  we  are  to  get  rid  of 
him.      No,  you  take  my   word  for  it — he  won't  defend. 
His  game  is  to  be  free  at  any  price. 


82  MID-CHANNEL 

ZoE. 

To  marry  again  perhaps  ! 

Leonard. 
Probably. 

Zoe. 
[ Clenching  her  hands, ,]    Ali.no! 

Leonard. 

[His  brow  darkening  again.']  Doesn't  (hat  please  you  ? 
There's  no  satisfying  you,  Zoe.  [She  leaves  him  and 
paces  the  room  distractedly. ]  A  minute  ago  you  were 
frightened  lest  he  should  be  ruined  by  Mrs.  Annerly  ! 

Zoe. 

[On  the  left.~\  I — I  couldn't  bear  the  idea  of  another 
woman  being  a  better  wife  to  him  than  I  was !  I  couldn't 
bear  it,  Lenny  ! 

Leonard. 
Why,  what  concern  would  it  be  of  yours ! 

Zoe. 

[  With  a  gesture,  as  the  glazed  door  opens.]    Sssh  ! 

[Warren  appears. 

Warren. 
[To  Zoe.]    I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am — Mr.  Mottram. 

Zoe. 
[Uttering  a  little,  eager  cry.~\    Ah  ! 

Warren. 
He'll  call  again,  ma'am,  if  you're  engaged. 


MID-CHANNEL  83 

ZOE. 

Did  you  say  I — I'd  anybody  with  me? 

Warren. 
No,  ma'am. 

Zoe. 

[After  a  slight  pause — indicating  the  adjoining  room .] 
Is  that  room  still  covered  up  ? 

Warren. 
Yes,  ma'am, 

Zoe. 
Well — show  him  in  there  for  the  moment. 

Warren. 
Yes,  ma'am.  [He  withdraws,  closing  the  door. 

Zoe. 
[To  Leonard,  in  a  low  voice.]    He'd  better  not  find 
you  here  so  early. 

Leonard. 
[Also  dropping  his  voice,  testily.]    Why  need  you  bother 
yourself  with  old  Peter  this  morning  ? 

Zoe. 
[Bringing  Leonard  his  hat  and  cane.]    I  haven't  seen 
him  since  January.     Don't  look  so  cross.     [Caressing  his 
cheek.]     Are  you  engaged  to  lunch  anywhere? 

Leonard. 
No. 


84  MID-CHANNEL 

ZOE. 

Will  you  cat  your  lunch  with  me? 

[He  nods.  She  takes  a  powder-puff  from  her  bag 
and,  looking  into  the  hand-mirror,  hurriedly  re- 
moves the  traces  of  her  tears.  1 1  'hile  she  is  thus 
occupied,  Leonard  listens  at  the  nearer  door 
on  the  right. 

Leonard. 

[Leaving  the  door — in  a  whisper.]    He's  there. 

[Warren  reappears. 

War  ken. 
[To  Zoe.]  Mr.  Mottram  is  in  the  next  room,  ma'am. 

Zoe. 
Thank  you.  [Warren  withdraws. 

Zoe. 

[To  Leonard,  in  a  whisper,  accompanying  him  to  the 
glazed  door.~]  Go  into  the  Park  and  sit  under  the  trees. 
Blow  a  kiss  for  me  to  all  the  kiddies.  [She  watches  him 
disappear  down  the  corridor.  Then,  having  closed  the 
glazed  door,  she  opens  the  further  door  on  the  right.'] 
Peter ! 

Peter. 
[Out  of  sight. .]    My  dear  lady  ! 

Zoe. 

[Going  into  the  next  room."]  Why  on  earth  have  they 
put  you  into  this  dismal  room  !  Come  into  the  light. 
[Returning  with  him,  her  arm  tucked  through  his.~\  Oh, 
my  dear  Peter — my  dear  Peter ! 

Peter. 
Ah,  yes,  yes,  yes !     A  nice  way  to  serve  a  pal ! 


MID-CHANNEL  85 

Zoe. 
[Closing  the  door.']    How  did  you ? 

Peter. 
Jim  Mallandain  dropped  in  at  the  office  this  morning. 
[They  leave  the  door.']    He  traveled  with  you  from  Paris 
on  Sunday. 

Zoe. 
I  collided  with  him  at  the  Gare  du  Nord. 

Peter. 
And  this  is  Wednesday  ! 

Zoe. 
[Withdrawing  her  arm.]    I  funked  sending  for  you; 
that's  a  fact. 

Peter. 
Funked  it? 

Zoe. 
[  With  the  air  of  a  child  in  disgrace.]   Your  letters  to  me 
have  been  awfully  svveet.'but  I  know  you  despise  me  for 
making  a  muck  of  things. 

Peter. 
[Protestingly .]    Ah,  Mrs.  Zoe  ! 

Zoe. 
And  I'm  rather  a  sick  rabbit,  Peter.    [Turning  away.] 
A  sick  rabbit  has  only  one  desire— to  hide  in  us  burrow. 
[Facing  him.]    My   heart   bounded   when  you  were   an- 
nounced, though. 


BU  MID-CHANNEL 

Peter. 

[Following  her.']  You  don't  look  very  fit.  Seen  a 
doctor  ? 

Zoe. 

I've  let  Lena  call  in  Rashleigh,  to  humor  her  ;  [silling 
on  the  settee  on  the  right]  and  I've  promised  to  swallow 
his  pig-wash. 

Peter. 

What's  he  say  ? 

Zoe. 

Chill  ;  but — [raising  her  eyes  to  his]  between  our- 
selves ? 

Peter. 
Honor. 

Zoe. 
[  With  quivering  lips.]    Life,  dear  old  chum  ! 

Peter. 
[Tenderly.]    Ain't  much  in  it? 

Zoe. 

Dam  little.  [Putting  her  hair  back  from  her  brow.] 
Phew!     Can't  sleep,  Peter. 

Peter. 
Oh,  lor! 

Zoe. 

I  tumble  into  bed  at  twelve — one — two.  I  get  an  hour's 
stupor,  from  sheer  fatigue,  and  then  I'm  wide  awake — 
thinking!  Then,  dressing-gown  and  slippers  and  the 
cigarettes  ;  and  then  it's  to  and  fro,  up  and  down — smoke 


MID-CHANNEL  87 

—smoke— smoke— often  till  the  servants  start  brushing 
the  stairs.     No  game,  eh? 

Peter. 
How  long  has  this ? 

Zoe. 

It  began  at—  [checking  herself]  oh,  a  devil  of  a  while. 
[With  a  shiver.]  But  I'm  worse  now  I've  set  foot  again 
in  this  house. 

Peter. 
[Eyeing  her  keenly^]    Ghosts  ?    [Avoiding  his  gaze,  she 
stretches  out  her  hand  toward  the  cigarette  box.    He  pushes 
the  box  beyond  her  reach.    She  makes  a  grimace.     There  is 
a  pause.]   Zoe 

Zoe. 

Well? 

Peter. 
[Deliberately.]   Why  shouldn't  you  pick  up  the  pieces? 

Zoe. 
Pick  up — the  pieces? 

Peter. 
You  and  Theodore. 

Zoe. 

Oh — don't  be — funny,  Peter. 

Peter. 
I'm   not  funny  ;   I'm   as  serious  as  the  clown  at  the 
circus.     [Another  paused]    Write  to  him — or  give  me  a 
message  to  take  to  him.     See  him. 

[She  gets  to  her  feet  and  attempts  to  pass  Peter. 


88  3111)-('UAXXEL 

He  detains  her  and  she  sinks  back  among  her 
pillows. 

ZOE. 

Ha,  ha!  You  ridiculous  man  !  [Faintly. ~\  Pick  up  the 
pieces  !     As  if  that  were  possible  ! 

Peter. 

Oh,  the  valuable  family  china  is  in  a  good  many  frag- 
ments, I  admit.  Put  there  are  the  fragments,  lyin'  on 
the  carpet.     They  can  be  collected,  fitted  together. 

Zoe. 

[With  a  sudden  gesture  of  entreaty.]  Ah,  for  God's 
sake,  Peter ! 

Pete  it. 
Why,  Pm  suggestin'  nothin'  unusual. 

Zoe. 
[Repeating  her  gesture.]    Sssh  ! 

Peter. 
Go  into  the  homes  of  three-fifths  of  the  married  people 
you  know — J  know — and  you'll  find  some  imposin'  speci- 
mens of  porcelain  that  won't  bear  inspectin'  very  nar- 
rowly. 

Zoe. 
[Waving the  subject  away.]    Sssh,  sssh  ! 

Peter. 
Only  yesterday  afternoon  I  was  callin'  at  a  house  in — 
never  mind  the  district.  I  was  wanderin'  round  the 
drawin'-room,  lookin'  at  the  bric-a-brac,  and  there,  on  a 
Louis  Quatorze  console-table,  were  as  handsome  a  pair 
of  old  Chinese  jars — genuine  Mings— as  ever  I've  met 


MID-CHANNEL  89 

A'ith.  Such  a  sooperb  glaze  they've  got,  such  depth  o' 
color !  They  appear  to  be  priceless,  perfect,  till  you  ex- 
amine 'em  closely  ;  and  then !     My  dear  Zoe,  they're 

cracked  ;  they've  both  had  a  nasty  knock  at  some  time 
or  another  ;  they're  scarred  shockin'ly  with  rivets  and 
cement.  And  while  I  was  sheddin'  tears  over  'em,  in 
sailed  madam,  smilin'  and  holdin'  out  her  hand  to  me — 
she'd  been  up-stairs,  rubbin'  carmine  on  her  lips 

Zoe. 
[In  a  murmur.']    You  horror  ! 

Peter. 
How  kind  of  me  to  call— and  how  wild  Tom  'ud  be  at 
missin'  me  !  To  the  casual  observer,  she's  the  happiest 
woman  goin'  ;  and  Tom,  who  strolled  in  just  as  1  was 
leavin',  might  be  the  most  domesticated  of  husbands. 
You  follow  me?  You  grasp  the  poetic  allegory  ?  Those 
faulty  old  Mings  are  emblematic  of  the  establishment 
they  adorn.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tom  fell  out  years  ago  ;  they 
turned  against  each  other  one  fine  day — in  mid-Channel 
— and  hadn't  the  sense  to  kiss  and  be  friends  on  landin'  ; 
their  lives  are  as  damaged  as  those  wounded  crocks  of 
theirs  on  the  console-table.  [Persuasively.]  Well,  but 
ain't  it  wiser  to  repair  the  broken  china,  rather  than 
chuck  the  bits  into  the  dust-bin?  It's  still  showy  and 
effective  at  a  distance  ;  and  there  are  cases — rare,  but 
they  exist — where  the  mendin's  been  done  so  neatly  that 
the  flaws  are  almost  imperceptible.  [Seating  himself  op- 
posite Zoe.]    Zoe 

Zoe. 
[Almost  inaudibly.]    Yes,  Peter? 

Peter. 

[Leaning  forward '.]  I  believe  yours  is  one  of  the  cases 
—yours  and  Theodore's — where  the  mendin'  would  be 
exceptionally  successful. 


90  Jl  ID-CHANNEL 

Zoic. 
What  do  you — what  do  you  mean  ? 

Peter. 

My  dear,  old  Theo  is  as  miserable  over  this  affair  as 
you  are. 

Zok. 
[Attempting  a  disdainful  smile.}    N-nonsense  ! 

Peter. 
Oh,  no,  H  ain't  nonsense. 

Zoe. 
W-what  makes  you  think  that? 

Peter. 
Between  ourselves  ? 

Zoe. 
[A  note  of  eagerness  in  her  voice.}    Honor. 

Peter. 

He  shows  it  in  all  manner  o'  ways.  Neglects  his  busi- 
ness— ain't  much  good  at  it  when  he  doesn't — is  losin' 
his  grip — looks  confoundedly  ill — is  ill.  Altogether  he's 
a  different  man  from  the  man  he  was,  even  when  matters 
were  at  boilin'  point  here. 

Zoe. 

[Locking  and  unlocking  her  fingers.~\  Does  he  ever — 
speak  of  me  ? 

Peter. 
Oh,  lor',  yes. 


MID-CHANNEL  91 

Zoe. 

N-not  kindly  ? 

Peter. 
Very.     Very  kindly. 

Zoe. 

[After  a  silence,  as   if   in  pain.']   Oh !    [She  rises, 

passes  him,  and  goes  to  the  other  side  of  the  room  where  she 
moves  from  one  piece  of  furniture  to  another  aimlessly. \ 
W-what's  he  say  about  me? 

Peter. 

[Not  turning.]  Frets  about  you — wonders  how  you're 
gettin'  along — wonders  as  to  the  state  of  your  finances — 
can't  bear  the  idea  of  your  bein'  in  the  least  pinched — 
wants  to  help  you. 

Zoe. 
He's  extremely  generous! 

Peter. 
Theo  ?     Never  was  anythin'  else. 

Zoe. 
[Her  eyes  flashing.]    His  own  expenses  must  be  pretty 
considerable  just  now,  too! 

Peter. 
[Pricking  up  his  ears.]    Must  they  ?    [  With  great  artless- 
ness.]    Why  ? 

Zoe. 
Oh,  do  you  imagine  I  live  with  wool  in  my  ears? 

Peter. 
[Over  his  shoulder.]    Wool ? 


92  MID-CHANNEL 

ZOE. 

This  woman  he's  continually  with!  [Peter's  face  is 
still  averted  from  'Lqyl.  At  this  juncture  his  eyes  open 
widely  and  his  mouth  shapes  to  a  whistle.']  This — Mrs. — 
Mrs. — what's  her  name — Annerly  !  [Pacing  the  room.~\  A 
notorious  woman — a  woman  without  a  shred  of  character 
— an  any-man's-woman ! 


Peter. 

[Settling  his  features  and  turning  his  chair  toward  Zoe 
— in  a  tone  of  expostulation.]    Oh  ! 

Zoe. 
A  baby-faced  thing — seven  years  younger  than  I  am! 
Precisely  the  class  of  goods  a  man  of  Theo's  age  flies  at ! 

Peter. 
Oh— oh ! 

Zoe. 
They're  rather  costly  articles,  aren't  they? 

Peter. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Zoe 

Zoe. 
Oh,  don't  you  pretend  to  be  so  innocent,  Peter!     You 
know  jolly  well  he's  all  over  the  place  with  her.     They 
were  at  Hurlingham  together  Saturday  week. 

Peter. 
[Coolly.]    I  dessay. 

Zoe. 

And  they  dine  tete-a-tete  at  the  Savoy,  Ritz's,  the  Carl- 
ton   


MID-CHANNEL  93 

Peter. 
Who  supplies  the  information? 

Zoe. 
They  were  at  the  Carlton  last  night. 

Peter. 
Who's  told  you  that? 

Zoe. 
L {She  pulls  herself  up. 

Peter. 
{Curiously.]    Who? 

Zoe. 
{Moistening  her  lips.']    Oh,    I — I   first  heard    of  it   all 
from  Jim  Mallandain.     He  was  full  of  it  on  board  the 
boat  on  Sunday. 

Peter. 
Was  he  !    {Rising  lazily, ,]    A  busy  gentleman — Jim. 

Zoe. 

It  was  Jim  who  met  them  at  Hurlingham — had  tea 
with  'em. 

Peter. 

{Curiously  again.]    But  it  can't  be  Jim  who's  blabbed 
about  last  night. 

Zoe. 
Why? 

Peter. 

{Shrugging  his  shoulders.]    He  happened  to  mention 
this  mornin'  that  he  was  with  a  party  at  Jules'. 


94  MID-CHANNEL 

ZOK. 

[ion/used.']  N-no,  it  isn't  from  Jim  I've  got  that.  I — 
{throwing  herself  into  the  armchair  near  the  glazed  door.~\ 
Oh,  but  really  it's  a  matter  of  supreme  indifference  to  me, 
Peter,  my  dear  boy,  whom  Theodore  entertains  at  the 
Carlton,  or  whom  he  entertains  at  his  flat 

Peter. 
{Coming  to  her.']    My  dear  Zoe 

Zoe. 

{Laughing  heartily.]  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  His  flat !  I  hear 
it's  quite  sumptuous.  After  his  pathetic  yearnings  for 
peace  and  quiet  in  a  garret,  he  sets  up,  within  a  month 
of  our  separating,  in  an  enormous  flat  in  Cavendish 
Square  !  I  received  that  bit  of  news  when  I  was  in  Flor- 
ence. 1 — I  was  intensely  amused.  Oh,  let  him  wallow 
in  his  precious  flat- ! 

Peter. 
{Argumentatively.]    My  dear  lady 


Zoe. 

{Her  hand  to  her  brow,  exhausted.]  Ah,  drop  it,  Peter  ; 
drop  it ! 

Peter. 

I  ask  you — a  liberal-minded  person — what  'ud  become 
of  friendship  as  an  institootion  if  men  and  women  couldn't 
be  pals  without  havin'  the — the — what-d'ye-call-it — the 
tongue  of  scandal  wagged  at  'em?  The  world  'ud  be  in- 
tolerable. It  ain't  all  marmalade  as  it  is  ;  but  if  a  fellow 
can't  take  the  fresh  air  in  the  company  of  a  female  at 
Hurlingham,  or  give  her  a  bite  o'  food  at  a  res- 
taurant  


MID-CHANNEL  95 

ZOE. 

[Her  head  against  tlie  back  of  her  chair,  her  eyes  closed. ~\ 
Ah.  la,  la,  la  ! 

Peter. 

As  for  this — er— this  Mrs.  Annerly 

\_He  again  purses  his  mouth  and  is  evidently  in  a 
difficulty. 

ZOE. 

[Her  eyes  still  shut.']   Well  ? 

Peter. 
It's   true   she  chucked  Annerly  for  another  chap.     I 
don't  condone  an  act  of  that  description — except  that  I 
knew  Annerly,  and  if  ever  there  was  a  dull  dog 

Zoe. 
Was  he  duller  than  Theo? 

Peter. 

Oh,  go  on  with  yer !  And  since  then  she's  been  a 
trifle — flighty — perhaps,  now  and  again  ;  [with  a  gulp] 
but  to-day  she  might  be  your  maiden  aunt. 

Zoe. 
[Dreamily.]    You  humbug,  Peter  ! 

Peter. 

[Sitting  beside  her,  upon  the  fauteuil- stool.]  Oh,  I'm  not 
maintainin'  that  we  men  always  select  our  women  pals 
from  the  right  basket.  I'm  not  sayin'  that  we  don't 
make  asses  of  ourselves  occasionally,  sometimes  from 
sentiment,  sometimes  from  vanity,  sometimes  from — 
various  causes.  But  the  same  remark  applies  to  you 
women  over  your  men-pals.  [Laying  a  hand  on  her  arm] 
For  instance — [she  opens  her  eyes]  for  instance,  here  you 


9t;  MID-CHANNEL 

are,  tlirowin'  stones  at  old  Theo  with  regard  to  Alice 
Annerly.  [Significantly]  My  dear,  there  are  a  few 
panes  o'  glass  in  the  house  you  live  in,  bear  in  mind. 

\_She  sits  upright,  looking  at  him. 


In  the  house — I 


Zoe. 


Peter. 

[Gravely]  Mrs.  Zoe,  what  you  did  when  you  were 
under  your  husband's  protection  is  one  thing  ;  what  you 
do  now  is  another  bag  o'  nuts  entirely.  And  a  woman 
situated  as  you  are  ought  to  be  careful  of  retainin'  a  cub 
among  her  intimates. 

Zoe. 
A  cub? 

Peter. 
Cub. 

Zoe. 
[Apprehensively]   To  whom — are  you  alluding? 

Peter. 
Lenny  Ferris. 

Zoe. 
L — enny ? 

Peter. 

It  ain't  an  agreeable  job,  pitchin'  into  a  fellow  you've 
been  on  good  terms  with  ;  but  the  fact  remains — to  put  it 
mildly — that  Master  Lenny's  a  stoopid,  blunderin'  cub. 

Zoe. 
[Haughtily  but  palpitatingly]     He's    nothing    of  the 
kind.     What  has  he  done  that  you  should  abuse  him  ? 


MID-CHANNEL  97 

Peter. 
It's  he  who's  told  you  that  Theodore  was  at  the  Carl- 
ton last  night,  ain't  it?    [She  drops  her  eyes.']    Been  here 
this  mornin'  ? 

Zoe. 
[Raising  her  eyes,  boldly.]    Yes. 

Peter. 
H'm!     The   sick   rabbit   doesn't   hide  in  her  burrow 
from  everybody. 

Zoe. 
H_how ? 

Peter. 
I  saw  your  lips  make  an  L  just  now,  before  you  could 
put  the  stopper  on. 

Zoe. 
Ha,  ha  !   You  ought  to  have  been  a  professional  detect- 
ive. 

Peter. 
{Scowling.]    Ferris  has  kept  out  of  my  way  lately,  or 
I 


Zoe. 
If  he  has  run  in  here  for  a  moment — to  ask  whether 
I'm  back — is  there  anything  particularly  cubbish  in  that? 

Peter. 
It  wasn't  that  I  was  referrin'  to. 

Zoe. 

N— no? 


98  MID-CHANNEL 

PETER. 

I  was  referrin'  to  his  havin'  the  damned  presumption 
to  dance  attendance  on  you  in  Italy. 

Zoe. 
[Aghast.']    I— Italy  ? 

Peter. 
He  was  at  Perugia  while  you  were  there. 

Zoe. 
Oh — Perugia 

Peter. 
[With  a  shrug:']    And  other  places,  I  assoom. 

Zoe. 

[After  a  pause,  putting  herself  together.]  H — ho!  [mim- 
icking Peter.]  And  who  supplies  the  information? 
[Peter  waves  the  question  from  him.]  Lowenstein,  by 
any  chance — Claud  Lowenstein?  [Peter,  looking  down 
his  nose,  is  silent.  She  rises  and  walks  away  from  him.] 
The  hound — the  little  hound  ! 

Peter. 

Lowenstein  came  across  you  both  at  some  railway 
station.     He  arrived  at  Perugia  the  day  you  left. 

Zoe. 

[Pacing  the  room  on  the  right.]  The  contemptible  little 
hound  ! 

Peter. 
He  put  up  at  the  Brufani  too. 

Zoe. 
[Stopping  in  her  walk — under  her  breath^]   Ah  ! 


MID-CHANNEL  99 

Peter. 
Master  Lenny  might  at  least  have  had  the  common 
decency  to  quarter  himself  at  another  hotel. 

Zoe. 

The — the    Brufani   is   the  most  comfortable — the 

[A  iause.~\    I — I  suppose  it  was  thoughtless  of  Lenny. 

Peter. 

{_Quietly.-\    Cub! 

Zoe. 
{Approaching  Peter.]    Does — Theodore — know? 

Peter. 
\Nodding.~\    Lovvenstein  went  to  him  with  it. 

Zoe. 
Ha,    ha!     A  busy    gentleman — Claudy    Lowenstein ! 
\_Falteringly.\    It— it  was  all  my  fault,  Peter.     If— if  any- 
body's to  blame,  I  am.     I— I  wrote  to  the  boy  from  Flor- 
ence— complaining  of  feeling  lonely 

Peter. 
That  doesn't  excuse  him. 

Zoe. 
{Touching  Peter's  shoulder  with  the  tips  ofherfingers.~\ 
What — what  does  Theodore ? 

Peter. 
He's  savage. 

Zoe. 

Savage  ? 


100  MID-CHANNEL 

Peter. 

[Rising.]    He'd   like   to   punch    Ferris's   head— as   I 
should. 

Zoic. 

[In  a  low  voice.]    Savage !    [Slowly.]    He— lie's 

jealous,  then?  [A  shrug  from  Peter.  Her  eyes  light  up.] 
Jealous!  [A  pause.]  Peter — no  man's  jealous  over  a 
woman — unless  he — unless  he  cares  for  her  !  [Plucking 
at  his  sleeve]    Peter  ! 

Peter. 
You've  heard  me  say  old  Theo's  miserable — desper- 
ately wretched. 

Zoe. 
He— he's  grown  fond  of  me  again — fond  of  me ! 

Peter. 
My  dear,  you  and  he  have  never  left  off  bein'  fond  o' 
one  another,   actually.     As  I  warned  you,   you've   only 
been   tossin'    about,   both   of  you,  on   a   bit  o'    troubled 
water. 

[She  stares  at  him  for  a  moment  with  an  expres- 
sionless face  and  then,  as  if  stupefied,  seats  her- 
self in  the  chair  on  the  left  of  the  oblong  table. 

Peter. 
[Standing  before  her.]  Well,  at  any  rate,  you'll  let  this 
Italian  business  be  a  lesson  to  you  not  to  rush  at  conclu- 
sions respectin'  other  people.  So,  come  now  ;  won't  you 
try  to  patch  it  up?  I'll  bet  my  noo  hat,  Theodore'll  meet 
you  half-way.    [Urgently.]    Zoe! 

Zoe. 
[Locking  and  unlocking  her  fingers  again.]    Peter 


MID-  CHA  NNEL  101 

Peter. 
Eh? 

ZOE. 

Your  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tom — the  world  perhaps  never 
heard  of  their  fall-out. 

Peter. 
What  o'  that  ? 

Zoe. 
Everybody  is  aware  of  the  split  between  me  and  Theo. 

Peter. 
Everybody  !     A  handful !     Besides,  nothin'  is  even  a 
nine  days'   wonder  in  these  times.    [A  pause.}    Will  you 
do  it? 

Zoe. 

[Suddenly,  starting  up  and  walking  away  to  the  left.'} 
Oh,  no,  no,  no!     I  can't — I  can't! 

Peter. 
{Following  her.}    Can't? 

Zoe. 

[Helplessly^}    I  can't,  Peter! 

Peter. 
[Taking  her  by  the  arms.}    Oh ! 

Zoe. 

I — I     mean    I — I'm    sure    it    wouldn't    answer — I'm 
sure 

Peter. 
My  dear  girl 


102  MID-CHANNEL 

ZOE. 

[Piteously]    Ah,    don't— don't!    [Escaping  from   him 
and  crossing  to  the  right. ]    Oh,  leave  me  alone  ! 

[Warren  enters  at  the  glazed  door. 

Warren. 
[To  Zoe.]    Miss  Pierpoint  is  down-stairs,  ma'am. 

ZOE. 

[Seizing  upon  the  interruption]    Ah,  yes! 

Warren. 

I'm  to  give  you   her  love,  ma'am,  and  if  it  isn't  con- 
venient for  you  to  see  her 

Zoe. 
It  is — it.  is — quite  convenient — quite.  [Warren  with- 
draws, closing  the  door]  I'm  awfully  sorry,  my  dear 
Peter,  but  this  child  wants  to  consult  me  about  something 
—something  important.  [Giving  him  her  hands]  I  must 
kick  you  out.     You  don't  feel  hurt,  do  you? 

Peter. 
[Ruefully.']    Confound  Miss  Pierpoint!     Zoe 

Zoe. 
What? 

Peter. 
You'll  think  it  over? 

Zoe. 
[Putting  her  hand  to  his  lips]    Ah ! 

Peter. 

[Holding  her  hand]    No.no.     Think  it  over.     Ask  me 
to  dine  with  you  one  night  next  week. 


MID-CHANNEL  103 


Monday — Tuesday  - 

Zoe. 

? 

Monday. 

Peter 

Zoe. 

[Artfully.']  Ah,  but  I  shall  lay  in  a  chaperon  for  the 
occasion. 

Peter. 
Rats !     How  can  I  talk  to  you  before  a  chaperon  ? 

Zoe. 

Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  !  \_She  runs  to  the  glazed  door,  opens  it, 
and,  going  into  the  corridor,  calls  loudly  and  excitedly.] 
Ethel — Ethel — Ethel !  [Ethel  appears  in  the  cor- 
ridor and  Zoe  embraces  her  with  an  excess  of  warmth.]  My 
dear  Ethel!  My  dear  child!  [They  kiss.]  What  ages 
since  we've  seen  each  other!  [Bringing  Ethel  into  the 
room.]   You  know  Mr.  Mottram  ? 

Ethel. 
[Going  to  Peter.]    Oh,  yes. 

Peter. 

[Shaking  hands  with  her.]  How-d'ye-do,  Miss  Pier- 
point — and  au  revoir. 

Ethel. 

[As  he  moves  toward  the  glazed  door.]  I'm  not  driving 
you  away  ? 

Peter. 

I  forgive  you. 

[He   rejoins   Zoe,  who  is  near  the  door.     Ethel 
lays  her  sunshade  upon  the  writing-table. 


104  MID-CHANNEL 

ZOE. 

[To  Peter.]    Monday  night? 

Peter. 

Monday  night. 

Zoe. 
Half-past  eight. 

Peter. 
[At  the  door,  dropping  his  voice. ~]    A  chaperon  ? 

Zoe. 
[Mockingly.]   The  proprieties  ! 

Peter. 

You  cat !  [He  goes. 

Zoe. 

[Closing  the  door.]  Ha,  ha  !  [She  leans  wearily  against 
the  door  for  a  moment  and  again  puis  back  her  hair  from 
her  brow.  Her  manner  now  becomes  strained,  artificial, 
distrait.  She  advances  to  Ethel.]  Now,  then  !  [Ethel 
turns  to  her.']  Let  me  have  a  good  squint  at  you.  How's 
your  dear  mother? 

Ethel. 
[Who  is  pale  and  sad-looking.]    Mother's  flourishing. 
[Leaving  the  writing-table .]    You're  not  angry  with  me 
for  rushing  you  at  this  hour? 

Zoe. 
Isn't  this  our  old  hour  for  a  chat  ? 

Ethel. 

We  were  at  Madame  Levine's  yesterday — mother  and 
I — ordering  frocks,  and  Camille,  the  skirtmaker,  told  us 
you  were  back.     Zoe,  how  unkind  you've  been  ! 


MID-CHANNEL  105 

ZOE. 

Am  I  in  your  bad  books  ? 

Ethel. 
Why  have  you  treated  us  so  horridly  ? 

Zoe. 

Well,  my  dear  child,  the  fact  is — the  fact  is  it  sud- 
denly dawned  on  me  that  perhaps  your  mother  mightn't 
consider  me  any  longer  a  suitable  pal  for  her  daughter. 

Ethel. 
{Protestingly^    Oh! 

Zoe. 

Heaps  of  folks,  you  know,  haven't  much  use  for  single 
married  women. 

Ethel. 
But  we  both  showed  you  that  our  sympathies  were  on 
your  side  ! 

Zoe. 

Yes,  we  often  sympathize  with  people  we  wouldn't 
touch  with  the  end  of  a  wet  umbrella. 

Ethel. 

{Coming  close  to  Zoe.]  So  that's  the  reason  you  left  off 
answering  my  letters  ! 

Zoe. 

C-certainly. 

Ethel. 
And    why    we   hear   of  your  return   through    fat   old 
Camille  !    {Fingering  a  jewel  at  Zoe's   neck.~\    You've 
had  a  pleasant  time  abroad  ? 


10t)  MID-  €11  A  XX EL 

Zoe. 

[Taking  Ethel's  face  between  her  hands,  abruptly^ 
How  thin  your  face  is,  Ethel ! 

Ethel. 

[Gazing  at  Zoe.]  Your  cheeks  are  not  as  round  as 
they  were. 

Zoe. 

[Leading  Ethel  to  the  settee  on  the  right.']  I  caught  a 
rotten  chill  on  board  the  boat  and  have  been  beastly 
seedy.  [Putting  Ethel  on  the  settee.]  What's  wrong 
with  you?  That's  a  dreary  note  I've  had  from  you  thib 
morning. 

Ethel. 

[  Tracing  a  pattern  on  the  floor  with  the  point  of  her 
shoe.]    Now  I'm  with  you,  I — I  can't 

Zoe. 
[Looking  down  upon  her.]    You  want  advice,  you  say. 

Ethel. 
[Tremulously.]    Yes. 

Zoe. 
Or  a  good  shaking. 

Ethel. 

I— I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself  for  be- 
ing so,  but  I — I'm  very  unhappy,  Zoe. 

Zoe. 
Unhappy? 

Ethel. 

It's  no  use  my  attempting  to  talk  to  mother.  Mother's 
a   person  who   prides   herself  on   her  level-headedness. 


MID-CHANNEL  107 

Anybody  with  a  fixed  income  and  a  poor  circulation  can 
be  level-headed!  It  only  means  you're  fish-like.  But 
you — you're  warm-blooded  and  human 

Zoe. 

Well  ? 

Ethel. 
Z-Zoe 

Zoe. 
Yes? 

Ethel. 

[Her  eyes  on  the  ground.]    Did  you  ever  suspect  that 
there  was  anything  between  Mr.  Ferris  and  me  ? 

Zoe. 
[Calmly,  steadying  herself.']    Mr.  Ferris — and  you? 

Ethel. 
An  attachment. 

Zoe. 
[With  affected  astonishment.]    My  dear  child  ! 

Ethel. 
[Looking  up.]    Oh,  don't  keep  on  calling  me  "child  "  ! 
I'm  nearly  six-and-twenty.  [Taking Zoe' s  hands.]  Didn't 
you  ever  guess  ? 

Zoe. 
He — he  always  seemed  delighted  to  meet  you  here. 

Ethel. 
He's  one  of  your  "boys" — hasn't  he  ever  talked  to 
you  about  me  ? 


ins  MID-CHANNEL 

ZOE. 

Of  course,  frequently. 

Ethel. 
Never  as  if  he  were — in  love  with  me? 

Zoe. 

[Withdrawing  her  hands.']  I — I  can't  say  that  it — 
struck  me 

Ethel. 
[Dejectedly.]    You   didn't   know,   perhaps,  that  at  the 
beginning  of  the  year — before  you  went  away — he  was  a 
great  deal  in  Sloane  Street  ? 

Zoe. 

Why,  yes,  he  used  to  have  tea  with  you  and  your 
mother  sometimes,  didn't  he?  [Turning from  Ethel.] 
How  did  I  hear  that? 

Ethel. 

[Hanging  her  head.]  Very  often  he  came  early  in  the 
afternoon — by  arrangement  with  me — while  mother  was 
resting. 

Zoe. 

[With  a  hard  laugh.]    Ha,  ha  !    Ethel ! 

Ethel. 
Yes,  worthy  of  a  vulgar  shop-girl,  wasn't  it? 

Zoe. 

[Sitting  in  the  chair  opposite  Ethel.]  He — he  came 
early  in  the  afternoon ? 

Ethel. 

And  we  sat  together,  in  the  firelight.  I'm  sure  he 
loved  me,  Zoe— then. 


MID  CHANNEL  109 

Zoe. 
[Breathing  heavily.~\    And — and  you ? 

Ethel. 

\_Her  elbows  on  her  knees,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands.'] 
Oh,  I'm  a  fool — an  awful  fool! 

Zoe. 
[After  a    silence.]     Did    he    ever— hint — at    marriage? 
[Ethel  nods,  without  uncovering  her  face.]    He  did  ! 

Ethel. 
[Raising  her  head.]    Well,  we  got  as  far  as  agreeing 
that  a  small  house  in  the  country,  near  his  aunt,  would 
be  an  ideal  state  of  existence.    [Mirthlessly.]    Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 
And  there  matters  broke  off. 

Zoe. 

What — what ? 

Ethel. 

All  of  a  sudden  there  was  a  change — a  change  in  his 
manner  toward  me.  He  still  called  on  us,  but  not  so 
regularly  ;  and  by  degrees  his  visits — ceased  altogether. 
[She  passes  her  hand  across  her  eyes  angrily  and,  stamp- 
i?ig  her  foot,  rises  and  moves  to  the  other  side  of  the  room.] 
The  last  time  I  spoke  to  him  was  one  morning  in  the 
Row.  Mother  and  I  were  walking  and  we  came  face  to 
face  with  him.  That  was  at  the  end  of  February.  He 
was  out  of  sorts,  he  said,  and  was  going  into  Devonshire. 
I  presume  he  went.  [Turning  to  Zoe  who,  with  parted 
lips,  is  staring  guiltily  at  the  carpet.]  He's  in  London 
now,  though.  I  saw  him  about  a  fortnight  ago,  at  the 
Opera.  I  was  with  the  Ormerods,  in  their  box;  he  was 
in  the  stalls.    [Touching  Zoe' s  shoulder.]    Zoe 


110  MID-CHANNEL 

Zoe. 
Yes? 

Ethel. 
He's  so  altered. 

Zoe. 
Altered  ? 

Ethel. 
In   his   appearance.     You    recollect   how  boyish  and 
fresh-looking  he  was  ? 

Zoe. 
Y-yes. 

Etkjl. 

All   that's  gone.     He's   become — oh,  but  I  dare  say 
you've  seen  him  since  you've  been  home  ? 

Zoe. 
J-just  for  a  minute  or  two. 

Ethel. 
You  must  have  noticed ? 

Zoe. 

N-now  you  mention  it 

Ethel. 

I  watched  him  through  the  opera-glass  several  times 
during  the  evening.    [Simply.']    He  looks  like  a  lost  soul. 

Zoe. 

I— I've    never — ha,    ha! — I've    never  made   the   ac- 
quaintance of  a  lost — ha,  ha! 


MID-CHANNEL  111 

Ethel. 
\After  a  pause.']    Zoe,  do  you  think  anything  has  hap- 
pened to  Lenny  Ferris  ? 


H-liappened  ? 
Anything  bad. 
Bad? 


Zoe. 

Ethel. 

Zoe. 


Ethel. 

Men's  lives  are  constantly  being  wrecked  by  racing,  or 

cards,  or [Half  turning  from  Zoe.]    Oh,  I  oughtn't 

to  know  about  such  things,  but  one  doesn't  live  in  the 
dark — he  may  have  got  mixed  up  with  some  woman  of 
the  wrong  sort,  mayn't  he? 

Zoe. 

[Rising  quickly  and  walking  away  to  the  left.']     I — I 
really  can't  discuss  topics  of  that  kind  with  you,  Ethel. 

Ethel. 

[Wistfully.]    No  ;  but  if  he  is  in  any  scrape — any  en- 
tanglement— and  one  could  help  him 

Zoe. 

[At  the  writing-table,  taking  up  a  bottle  of  salts— faintly."] 
Help  him  ? 

Ethel. 
Save  him ! 

Zoe. 
[Sniffing  the  salts.]    How — how  romantic  you  are  ! 


1TJ  MID-CHANNEL 

Ethel. 

Am  I  !  [Her  elbows  on  the  back  of  the  armchair  by  the 
oblong  tabic,  timidly.']  'Log,  would  it  be  possible — in  your 
opinion — would  it  be  possible  for  me  to — to  see  him? 

Zoic. 

[Sitting  in  the  chair  at  the  writing-table.]  See  Mr. 
Ferris? 

Ethel. 

\_Plucking  at  the  cover  of  the  chair  on  which  she  is  lean- 
ing.] Here — in  your  house — or  elsewhere — see  him  and 
offer  him  my  friendship — a  sister's  friendship  ?  You  could 
manage  it. 

Zoe. 
My — my  dear  ! 

Ethel. 

Oh,  yes,  I'm  lacking  in  dignity,  aren't  I— and  self- 
respect  !  [Coming  forward.]  I've  told  myself  that  a 
thousand  times.  [Warmly.]  But  there  are  quite  enough 
dignified  people  in  the  world  without  me  ;  and  if  I  could 
influence  Lenny,  any  one  might  have  my  dignity  for  two- 
pence. 


Zoe. 


Influence  him 


Ethel. 

For  his  good.  Oh,  I  don't  want  to  boast,  but  I'm  a 
straight,  clean  girl  ;  and  it  may  be  that,  at  this  particular 
moment  of  his  life,  the  more  he  sees  of  women  like  you 
and  me  the  better.  However,  if  you  tell  me  the  idea's 
improper,  I'll  accept  it  from  you.  [Approaching  Zoe.] 
I'll  take  anything  from  you.  [Appealingly.]  But  don't 
tell  me  that,  if  you  can  avoid  it.     Give  me  the  oppor- 


MID-CHANNEL  113 

tunity,  if  you  can,  of  showing  him  that  I'm  different  from 
most    girls — that    I'm    above    petty,    resentful   feelings. 

[Bending  over  Zoe.]    Zoe 

[Lena  enters  at  the  further  door  on  the  right,  car- 
rying a  silver  salver  on  which  are  a  dose  of 
medicine  in  a  medicine-glass  and  a  dish  of 
sweetmeats. 

Lena. 
Your  med'cine!    {Closing  the   door.~\   Good-morning, 
Miss  Pierpoint. 

Ethel. 
Ah,  Lena  ! 

Zoe. 

[To  Ethel,  rising  hastily.']    Excuse  me 

[Lena  advances  and  Zoe  goes  to  her  and,  with  a 
shaking  hand,  drinks  the  medicine. 

Lena. 
[To  Zoe.]    Good  gracious,  how  queer  you  look  !    [To 
Ethel.]    She's  doing  too  much  to-day,  Miss  Pierpoint. 
[Going  to  Ethel.]    Dr.   Rashleigh  says  she's  frightfully 
below  par. 

Ethel. 
[Picking   up   her  sunshade.]    What    a   shame  of  me ! 
[Running  to  Zoe.]    I  won't  stay  another  minute. 

Zoe. 
[Sitting  on  the  settee  on  the  right.]    I   am  a  little   fa- 
tigued. 

Ethel. 
I  ought  to  have  seen  it. 


114  MID-CHANNEL 

Zoe. 
I — I'll   write   to   you.    [They  Zeiss.']    My   love  to  your 
mother. 

Ethel. 
And  when  you  are  well  enough ? 

Zoe. 
I'll  call  upon  her. 

Ethel. 

[To  Lena,  who  precedes  her  into  the  corridor.]    No,  no  ; 

stop  with  Mrs.  Blundell.     I'm  so  sorry,  Lena 

[Lena  and  Ethel  talk  together  for  a  little  while 
in  undertones  ;  then  the  girl  disappears.  Lena 
returns. 

Lena. 

[Shutting  the  door.]  Silly  chatterbox !  [Finding  Zoe 
lying  at  full  length  upon  the  settee,  her  head  buried  in  a 
pillow.]  Why  do  you  tire  yourself  like  this?  Shall  I 
fetcli  you  some  brandy  ? 

Zoe. 
No. 

Lena. 
[Lowering  her  voice.]    He's  in  the  house  again. 

Zoe. 
Who? 

Lena. 
Mr.  Ferris. 

Zoe. 

[Raising  herself.]    Mr.  Ferris! 


MID-CHANNEL  115 

Lena. 
[With  a  jerk  of  her  head  in  the  direction  of  the  next 
room.]  In  there.  [Zoe  sits  upright]  Warren's  making 
himself  beautiful  and  Clara  answered  the  door.  She 
thought  you  were  by  yourself  and  let  him  come  up.  [Zoe 
gets  to  her  feet.~\  I  was  just  bringing  you  your  med'cine 
and  met  him.  [Zok  goes  to  the  writing-table,  takes  up  the 
hand-mirror,  and  puts  her  hair  in  order]  Lucky  I'd  heard 
that  Miss  Pierpoint  was  here  ;  he  didn't  want  to  see  her! 
Another  second ! 

Zoe. 
That'll  do.    [Calmly.]   Take  care  I'm  not  interrupted 
again. 

Lena. 
Ah,  now  !     Mayn't  I  get  rid  of  him  ? 

Zoe. 
No.    [Turning]    Run  away,  please. 

Lena. 
Oh,  very  good.    [Picking  tip  the  salver  which  she  has 
placed   upon    a  piece  of  furniture  near  the  glazed  door] 
You'll  do  exactly  as  you  choose,    [hi  the  corridor]    I  de- 
clare I'd  rather  look  after  a  pack  of  unruly  children  any 

day  in  the  week 

[She  closes  the  door.  Zoe  glances  over  her  shoul- 
der, to  assure  herself  that  the  woman  has  left 
the  room,  and  then,  with  a  fierce  light  in  her 
eyes,  goes  to  the  nearer  door  on  the  right  and 
throws  it  open. 

Zoe. 
[In   a   hard  voice,  speaking  into  the  adjoining  room] 
I'm  alone. 

[She  moves  from  the  door  as  Leonard,  still  carry- 
ing his  hat  and  cane,  enters. 


116  MID-CHANNEL 

Leonard. 
By  George,  that  was  a  narrow  squeak!     {Closing  the 
door.]     Whatever    possessed    you    to  be  at  home  to  the 
Pierpoint  girl  this  morning? 

Zoe. 
{Coldly. .]    1  didn't  expect  you  back  before  lunch. 

Leonard. 

{Putting  his  hat  and  cane  on  the  chair  at  the  nearer  end 
of  the  settee  on  the  right.]  I  was  talking  to  a  man  at  Vic- 
toria Gate  and  I  saw  Peter  driving  away  in  a  Taxi. 
{Facing  her.]  I  got  sick  of  the  Park.  {Seeing  that  some- 
thing is  amiss.]  Hallo!  {A  pause.]  Any  one  been  run- 
ning me  down  ? 

{She  advances  to  him  and,  drawing  herself  to  her 
full  height,  regards  him  scornfully. 

Zoe. 
{Making  a  motion  with  her  hands  as  if  she  would  strike 

him.]    You — you !    {Dropping  her  hands  to  her  side.] 

Oh,  cruel — cruel — {walking  away  from  him]  cruel! 

Leonard. 
What's  cruel  ?     Who's  cruel  ? 

Zoe. 

{At  the  further  end  of  the  room,  on  the  right.]    Ah — 
ah ! 

Leonard. 

{Moving  to  the  left.]   Oh,  come!     Let's  have  it  out; 
let's  have  it  out. 

Zoe. 
Sssh  !     Don't  raise  your  voice  here. 


MID-CHANNEL  117 

Leonard. 
Somebody's    been    talking   against   me.     Ethel    Pier- 
point  ? 

Zoe. 
{Coming  to  the  oblong  table. ,]    You've  behaved  abomi- 
nably to  this  girl. 

Leonard. 
Ho,  it  is  Miss  Pierpoint ! 

Zoe. 
No,  she  hasn't  spoken  a  word  against  you.     But  she's 
opened  her  heart  to  me. 

Leonard. 
[Going  to  Zoe.]    You've    known    all   about   me   and 
Ethel. 

Zoe. 

It's  a  lie.  How  much  have  I  known?  I  knew  that 
you  were  sizing  her  up,  as  you  expressed  it  ;  but  I  never 
surmised  that  you'd  as  good  as  proposed  marriage  to  her. 

Leonard. 

I  told  you  months  ago — admitted  it — that  I'd  made 
myself  a  bit  of  an  idiot  over  Ethel.  I  fancied  you 
tumbled  to  the  state  o'  things. 

Zoe. 
Did  you  !     Why,  do  you  think — maniac  as  I  was  when 
you  came  through  to  me  to  Florence  ! — do  you  think  I'd 
have  allowed  you  to  remain   near  me  for  five  minutes  if 
I'd  known  as  much  as  I  do  now  ! 

Leonard. 
Look  here,  Zoe 


118  MID-CHANNEL 

Zoe. 

Oh,  you're  a  cruel  fellow  !  You've  been  cruel  to  her 
and  cruel  to  me.  I  believe  you're  capable  of  being  cruel 
to  any  woman  who  comes  your  way.  Still,  she's  the  for- 
tunate one.  Her  scratches'll  heal;  but  I  [sitting  at  the 
oblong  table  and  hitting  it  with  her  fist]  I  loathe  myself 
more  than  ever — more  than  ever  ! 

Leonard. 

[After  a  panse.~\  Zoe,  1  wish  you'd  try  to  be  a  little 
fair  to  me. 

Zoe. 
[Ironically. ]    Fair ! 

Leonard. 

Perhaps  I  did  go  rather  further  with  Ethel  Pierpoint 
than  I  led  you  to  understand. 

Zoe. 
Oh ! 

Leonard. 

I  own  up.  Yes,  but  what  prospect  was  there,  when  I 
was  thick  with  her,  of  your  being  free  of  Blundell? 
None.  And  what  was  I  to  you  ?  Merely  a  pal  of  yours 
— one  of  your  "tame  robins" — one  of  a  dozen  ;  and  I'd 
come  to  a  loose  end  in  my  life.  It  was  simply  the  fact 
that  there  ivas  no  prospect  for  me  with  you  that  drove  me 
to  consider  whether  I  hadn't  better  settle  down  to  a  hum- 
drum with  a  decent  girl  of  the  Ethel  breed.  Otherwise, 
do  you  imagine  I'd  have  crossed  the  street  to  speak  to 
another  woman  ?  [Leai/ing  Zoe.]  Oh,  you  might  do  me 
common  justice!  [Hotly."]  If  circumstances  have  made 
a  cad  of  me,  am  I  all  black?  Can't  you  find  any  good 
in  me  ?   [  Turning  to  her.]  What  did  I  tell  you  at  Perugia? 


MID-CHANNEL  119 

Zoe. 
[Rising.]   Ah,  don't ! 

Leonard. 
That  I'd  been  in  love  with  you  from  the  day  I  first  met 
you from  the  very  moment  Mrs.  Hope-Cornish  intro- 
duced me  to  you  at  Sandown  !  Well  !  Isn't  there  any- 
thing to  my  credit  on  that  score?  Didn't  I  keep  my 
secret?  For  four  years  I  kept  it;  though,  with  matters 
as  they  often  were  between  you  and  Blundell,  many  a 
man  might  have  thought  you  ripe  grapes.  [  Walking  across 
to  the  right.']  Only  once  I  was  off  my  guard  with  you— 
when  I  laid  hold  of  you  and  begged  you,  whatever  hap- 
pened, never  to — never  to 

Zoe. 
[Leaning  against  the  table,  her  back  to  him.]    Ha,  ha, 
ha! 

Leonard. 
Yes,  and  I  meant  it  ;  as  God  hears  me,  I  meant  it. 
If  anybody  had  told  me  that  afternoon  that  it  was  I  who 
—oh,  hang  !  {Sitting  upon  the  settee.]  But  what  I  want  to 
impress  upon  you  is  that,  if  I  were  quite  the  low  scoundrel 
you  make  me  out  to  be,  I  shouldn't  have  gone  through 
what  I  have  gone  through  these  past  four  years  and  more. 
Great  Scot,  it's  been  nothing  but  hell— hot  hell — all  the 
time  !  Four  whole  years  of  pretending  I  was  just  an  or- 
dinary friend  of  yours— hell  !  Four  years  of  reasoning 
with  myself— preaching  to  myself— hell !  That  awful 
month  after  Blundell  left  you— when  you'd  gone  to  Italy 
and  I  was  in  London — worse  than  hell !  My  chase  after 
you— our  little  tour  together— my  struggle  even  then  to 
play  the  correct  game — and  I  did  struggle — hell  !  And 
since  then— hell !  [His  elbows  on  his  knees,  digging  his 
knuckles  into  his  forehead.]  Hell  all  the  time  !  Hell  all 
the  time  ! 


120  MID-CHANNEL 

\_There  is  a  silence,  and  then,  with  a  took  of  set- 
lied  determination,  she  comes  to  him  slowly  and 
lays  her  hands  upon  his  head. 

ZOE. 

Poor  boy  !     I'm  sorry  I  blackguarded  you.    \Sitting  in 
the  chair  opposite  to  him  and  speaking  in  a  steady,  level 


nte.  j     i_.cn 

Leonard. 

Eh? 

Zoe. 

Let's  part. 

Leonard. 

\ Raising  his  head 

.]    Part? 
Zoe. 

Say  good-bye  to 
ick  to  that  girl. 

each  other. 
Leonard. 

[Meeting- 

his eyes."] 

Go 

To  Ethel  ! 

Zoe. 

Take  up  with  her 

again. 

Leonard. 

Oh,  stop  it,  Zo. 

Zoe. 

She's  devoted  to 

you ;  and  she 

's  sound  i 

•ight  through, 

if  ever  a  girl  was.     She's  one  of  the  best,  Len. 

Leonard. 
Suppose  she  is 


MID-CHANNEL  121 

ZOE. 

Be  careful  that  she  doesn't  guess  I've  given  her  away. 
[He  rises  impatiently.  She  rises  with  him  and  holds  him  by 
the  lapels  of  his  jacket]  Tell  her — she's  sure  to  ask  you — 
tell  her  that  you  haven't  seen  me  since  last  Monday,  nor 
had  a  line  from  me.  Fake  up  some  tale  to  account  for 
your  breaking  off  with  her — you  were  in  doubt  whether 
you'd  coin  enough  to  marry  on 

Leonard. 
[  IVfio  has  beco?ne  thoughtful.']    Zoe 

Zoe. 
Yes? 

Leonard. 
[Looking  her  full  in  the  face.]    Are  you  giving  me  the 
boot  ? 

Zoe. 
[Releasing  him  and  returning  his  gaze  firmly.]    Yes  ; 
I  am. 

Leonard. 
[After1  a  pause.]    Oh? '  [Another  pause.]    What's  your 

motive  ? 

Zoe. 
Motive? 

Leonard. 
What's  behind  all  this? 

Zoe. 
[Simply.]    I   want  you  to  be  happy,  Len— really  and 
truly  happy.     I  believe  you'd  stand  a  jolly  good  chance 
of  being  so  with  Ethel  Pierpoint  ;  never  with  me. 


122  MID-CHA  NNEL 

Leonard. 

And  you  t 

Zoe. 
I? 

Leonard. 
What's  to  become  of  you?     What  are  your  plans  for 
yourself? 

Zoe. 

[Avoiding  his  eyes.'}    Oh,  don't  you — don't  you  worry 
about  me. 

Leonard. 
Rot! 

Zoe. 
[Nervous ly.}    Perhaps    some   day — when   Theodore's 
tired  of  Mrs.   Annerly — ha,  ha! — stranger  things  have 
happened  

Leonard. 
Rot,  I  say.   [She  retreats  a  little^   Do  you  think  you  can 
drum  me  out  like  this  !    [Following  her.}    Have  you  got 
some  other ?  [He  checks  himself. 

Zoe. 
[Confronting  him.}   Some  other ? 

Leonard. 
Oh,  never  mind. 

Zoe. 
Out  with  it ! 

Leonard. 
Some  other  fancy-man  in  tow  ? 


MID-CHANNEL  123 

ZOE. 

Ah !  You  brute !  [Hitting  him  in  the  chest.]  You 
brute  !  [  Throwing  herself  into  the  armchair  near  the 
glazed  door.]    You  coward  !     You  coward  ! 

[2'here  is  a  pause  and  then  he  slouches  up  to  her. 

Leonard. 
I — I  beg  your  pardon.      I  beg  your  pardon.    [He  sits 
beside  her,  upon  the  fauteuil-stool.]    Knock  my  damned 
head  off.     Go  on.     Knock  my  damned  head  off. 

Zoe. 
[Panting.]    Well— we  won't   part— on   top   of  a   row. 
[Dashing  a  tear  away. .]    After  all,  why  should  you  think 
better  of  me  than  that  ? 

Leonard. 
[Penitently.']   Zoe 

Zoe. 

Sssh  !  Listen.  Putting  Ethel  Pierpoint  out  of  the 
question,  do  you  ever  picture  to  yourself  what  our  mar- 
ried life  would  be? 

Leonard. 

What  it  'ud  be? 

Zoe. 

Tire  marriage- of  a  woman  of  setten — nearly  eight — 
and-thirty  to  a  man  of  thirty-two  !  7\do.  I  walk  my 
bedroom  half  the  night  and  act  it  all  over  to  myself. 
And  you've  had  the  best  of  me,  too;  I'm  not  even  a 
novelty  to  you.  Why,  of  course  you've  realized  what 
you've  let  yourself  in  for. 

Leonard. 
I  take  my  oath 


124  MID-CHANNEL 

Zoe. 
Sssh  !    When  you're  in  front  of  your  glass  in  the  morn- 
ing, what  do  you  see  there? 

Leonard. 

See? 

Zoe. 

This  girl  has  noticed  the  alteration  in  your  looks.  She 
took  stock  of  you  at  the  opera  the  other  night. 

Leonard. 
[Passing   his   hands   over  his  face  consciously.']    Men 
can't  go  to  hell,  Zo,  without  getting  a  bit  scorched. 

Zoe. 

[Imitating  his  action.']  No,  nor  women  either.  [Turn- 
ing to  him.]  But  it's  only  quite  lately  that  you've  lost 
your  bloom,  Len. 

Leonard. 

Oh,  naturally  I've  been  horribly  bothered  about  you — 
about  both  of  us — since 

Zoe. 
Since  your  trip  to  Italy  ?    [He  nods.]    Yes,  and  natu- 
rally you've  told  yourself,  over  and  over  again,  the  truth 
— since  your  trip  to  Italy. 

Leonard. 
Truth  ? 

Zoe. 
The  simple  truth — that  you've  got  into  a  mess  with  a 
married  woman 

Leonard. 
I— I 


MID-CHANNEL  125 

ZOE. 

And  that  you  must  go  through  with  it,  at  all  costs. 

Leonard. 
1  swear  to  you,  Zoe 

Zoe. 

[Touching  his  hand.~\  Oh,  my  dear  boy,  you  haven't 
perhaps  said  these  things  to  yourself,  in  so  many  words, 
but  they're  at  the  back  of  your  brain  just  the  same. 

\_She   rises   and  crosses  to  the  fireplace  and  rings 
three  times. 

Leonard. 
\_Rising.~]    What — what  are  you  doing? 

Zoe. 

Ringing  for  Lena,  to  tell  her  I'm  not  lunching  down- 
stairs. 

Leonard. 

By  God,  Zoe ! 

Zoe. 

[Imperiously. ~\    Be  quiet ! 

Leonard. 

{Shaking  his  fist  at  her.~]  You  dare  treat  me  in  this 
way  !     You  dare  ! 

Zoe. 

[Advancing."]  Ah,  I'm  only  hurting  your  pride  a  little  ; 
I'm  only  mortifying  your  vanity.  You'll  get  over  that  in 
twenty-four  hours. 

Leonard. 
Do  you  know  what  you  are ;  do  you  know  what  you 
make  yourself  by  this! 


126  MID-CHANNEL 

Zoi£. 
Yes,  what  you  made  of  me  at  Perugia,  and  at  Siena, 

and  at !    [Suddenly,  clinging  to  himl]    Lenny — Lenny 

— kiss  me ! 

Leonard. 
[Pushing  her  from  him.]    Not  I. 

ZOE. 

Ah,  yes.     Don't  let's   part   enemies.     It's  good-bye. 
Lenny  ! 

Leonard. 
No. 

ZOE. 

[Struggling  with  him  entreatingfy.~\    Quick!     It's  for 

the    last   time.     You'll    never   be    alone  with  me  again. 

'Her  arms   tightly  round  him."]    It's   for   the   last  time. 

Kissing  him  passionately.]    Good   luck   to  you  I    Good 

uck  to  you  !     Good  luck  to  you  ! 

[She  leaves  him  and  sits  at  the  writing-table  where 
she  makes  a  pretence  of  busying  herself  with  her 
papers. 

Leonard. 
[Glancing  expectantly  at  the  glazed  door— between  his 

teeth.]   You — you ! 

[Presently  he  goes  to  the  chair  on  the  right  and 
snatches  up  his  hat  and  cane.  Lena  enters  at 
the  glazed  door. 

Lena. 
[To  Zoe.]    Is  it  me  you've  rung  for? 

ZOE. 

Yes.    [Sharply.]   Wait. 


31ID-CHANNEL  127 

[Thee  is  a  pause.  Struck  by  Zoe's  tone,  and  the 
attitude  of  the  pair,  Lena  looks  inquisitively  at 
Leonard  and  Zoe  out  of  the  corners  of  her 
eyes,  as  if  she  guesses  there  has  been  a  quarrel. 
Leonard  moves  toward  the  door. 

Leonard. 
[To  Zoe.]    Good-morning. 

Zoe. 
Good-morning. 

Leonard. 
[To  Lena,  as  he  passes  her.']    Good-morning. 

Lena. 

Good-morning. 

[He  departs  and  Lena  quietly  closes  the  door. 

Zoe. 
[Rising.]    Lena 

Lena. 

Yes? 

Zoe. 

[  Walking  across  to  the  settee  on  the  right.]  I'm  not  com- 
ing down  to  the  dining-room.  [Sitting,  feebly.]  Let  me 
have  a  snack  up-stairs. 

Lena. 

Very  well. 

Zoe. 

That's  all. 

[Lena  withdraws,  almost  on  tiptoe,  and  Zoe  in- 
stantly produces  her  handkerchief  and  cries  into 
it  softly.      Then  she  gets  to  her  feet  and  searches 


128  MID-CHANNEL 

for  the  cigarette  box.  Still  shaken  by  little  sobs, 
she  puts  a  cigarette  between  her  lips  and,  as  she 
does  so,  the  expression  of  her  face  changes  and 
her  body  stiffens. 

Zoe. 
{Under  her  breath.]   Oh !      [After  a  moment's  ir- 
resolution, she  hurriedly  dries   her  eyes  and,  going  to  the 
glazed  door,  opens  it,  and  calls.']    Lena — Lena ! 

Lena. 

[In  the  distanced]    Yes? 

[Zoe  returns  to  the  oblong  table  and  is  lighting  her 
cigarette  when  Lena  reappears. 

Zoe. 
Lena 

Lena. 
Well  ? 

Zoe. 
I'll  dress  directly  after  lunch. 

Lena. 
[Coming  to  her,  surprised.]    Dress? 

Zoe. 
Yes;   I'm  going  out  this  afternoon. 

Lena. 
Going  out !     Why,  you  must  be  crazy f 


END  OF  THE  SECOND  ACT 


THE  THIRD  ACT 

The  scene  is  a  fine,  spacious  room,  richly  furnished  and  dec- 
orated. In  the  centre  of  the  wall  at  the  back  is  the 
fireplace,  and  on  the  left  of  the  fireplace  is  a  door  which 
when  open  reveals  part  of  a  dining-room.  In  the  right- 
hand  wall  there  is  a  Say-window  hung  with  lace  and 
other  curtains.  Facing  the  window,  in  the  wall  on  the 
left,  is  a  double-door  opening  into  the  room  from  a  cor- 
ridor. 

On  either  side  of  the  fireplace  there  is  an  armchair,  and 
between  the  fireplace  and  the  dining-room  door  stands  a 
small  table  on  which  are  a  decanter  of  whiskey,  a  syphon 
of  soda-water,  and  two  or  three  tumblers.  A  grand 
piano  and  a  music-stool  are  in  the  right-hand  corner  of 
the  room,  and  on  the  left  of  the  piano  is  a  settee.  Some 
photographs  are  on  the  top  of  the  piano.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  room  there  is  a  second  settee  with  a  table  at 
the  nearer  end  of  it.  An  armchair  stands  by  this  table, 
another  at  the  further  end  of  the  settee.  In  the  bay- 
window  there  is  a  writing-table  with  a  writing-chair 
before  it,  and  on  the  writing-table  is  a  telephone-instru- 
ment. Other  articles  of  furniture,  some  pieces  of  sculp- 
ture, and  some  handsome  lamps  on  pedestals,  fill  spaces 
not  provided  for  in  this  description. 

A  scarf  of  mousseline  de  soie  and  a  pair  of  white  gloves  lie 
on  the  chair  on  the  right  of  the  fireplace. 

The  fireless  grate  is  hidden  by  a  screen  and,  through  the 
lace  curtains,  which  are  drawn  over  the  window,  a  fierce 
sunlight  is  seen. 

129 


130  MID  CHANNEL 

The  door  at  the  back  is  slightly  ajar. 

[The  telephone  bell  rings,  and presently  THEODORE 
Blundell  enters  at  the  door  at  the  back, 
and  goes  to  the  writing-table.  His  step  has  be- 
come heavier,  his  shoulders  are  somewhat  bent, 
and  he  looks  a  ' '  bad  color. 

Theodore. 
[At  the  telephone.]  Halloo !  .  .  .  Yes  ?  ...  I  am 
Mr.  Blundell.  .  .  .  Oh,  is  that  you,  Peter?  .  .  . 
What?  .  .  .  Want  to  see  me  ?  .  .  .  Anything  wrong? 
.  .  .  Where  are  you  ?  .  .  .  Where  ?  .  .  .  Cafe 
Royal?  .  .  .  Come  along  to  me  now,  then  ?  .  .  .  Oh, 
I  say  !  .  .  .  Are  you  there?  .  .  .  [Dropping  his  voice.'] 
I  say  !  Mrs.  A.  is  lunching  with  me.  .  .  .  Mrs.  A. — 
Alice.  .  .  .  No,  but  I  thought  I'd  tell  you.  .  .  . 
Good-bye. 

\_He  is  about  to  return  to  the  dining-room  when 
Mrs.  Annerly  appears  in  the  doorway  at  the 
back.  She  is  a  pretty ,  charmingly-dressed  crea- 
ture with  classical,  immobile  features  and  a  sim- 
ple, virginal  air. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

[Advancing:']  I've  told  Cole  we'll  have  coffee  in  this 
room.  [He  nods  and  sits  moodily  upon  the  settee  on  the 
right.  Resting  her  elbows  on  the  back  of  the  armchair  at 
the  further  end  of  the  settee  on  the  left,  she  surveys  her  face 
in  a  tiny  mirror  which  she  carries,  with  some  other  trinkets, 
attached  to  a  chain.']  Who's  that  you  were  talking  to  on  the 
'phone,  boy  dear? 

Theodore. 
[  Who  is  smoking  a  big  cigar.]    Mottram. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
What's  he  want? 


MID-CHANNEL  131 

Theodore. 
Wants  to  see  me  about  something. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
Business? 

Theodore. 
Dun'no. 

Mrs.  Annerlv. 
[Sweetly.']    He  doesn't  like  poor  little  me. 

Theodore. 
[Indifferently.]    Doesn't  he? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

You  know  he  doesn't.  [Arranging  a  curl.]  That's 
why  you  gave  him  the  tip  that  I'm  lunching  here. 

Theodore. 
Ho  !     Listeners — et  ccetera. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

I  couldn't  help  hearing  you  ;  positively  I  couldn't. 
[Examining  her  teeth  in  the  mirror.]  He's  one  of  your 
wife's  tame  cats,  isn't  he  ? 

Theodore. 
He's  a  friend  of  hers — yes. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
Just  a  friend,  and  nothing  else. 

Theodore. 
[Angrily. ]    Now,  look  here,  Alice 


[Cole,  a  man  servant,  enters  from  the  dining- 
room  with  the  coffee  and  liqueurs.  Mrs.  An- 
nerly takes  a  cup  of  coffee. 


132  MID-CHANNEL 

Cole. 
[To  Mrs.  Annerly.]    Brandy — Kummel,  ma'am? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
No,  thanks. 

Theodore. 
[7b  Cole,  who  comes  to  him  with  the  tray — irritably, .] 
Leave  it.    [Cole  places  the  tray  on  the  top  of  the  piano 
and  is  returning  to  the  dining-room.']    Cole 

Cole. 

Yessir  ? 

Theodore. 
I'm  expecting  Mr.  Mottram. 

Cole. 
Very  good,  sir. 

[The  man  withdraws,  closing  the  door.  Theo- 
dore rises  and  pours  some  brandy  into  a  large 
liqueur-glass. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

[Who  has  seated  herself  upon  the  settee  on  the  left."] 
What's  the  matter  with  you  to-day,  boy  dear?  You're 
as  cross  as  two  sticks. 

Theodore. 
Liver. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Sipping  her  coffee, ~\    I  don't  wonder. 

Theodore. 
Why? 


MID-CHANNEL  133 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
You're   getting   rather   too   fond    of — [pointing  to  the 
brandy]  h'm,  h'm. 

Theodore. 
{Bluntly.]    It's  false. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[With  undisturbed  complacency.]    I've  seen  so  much  of 
that  sort  o'  thing  in  my  time.    [//<?  makes  a  movement,  as 
if  to  put  down  his  glass  without  drinking.]    Still,  I  must 
say  you've  every  excuse. 

Theodore. 
Alice 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

What? 

[He  gulps  his  brandy,  puts  the  empty  glass  on  the 
tray,  and  comes  to  her. 

Theodore. 

[Standing  before  her.]  Alice,  will  you  oblige  me  by 
refraining  from  making  any  allusion  to  my  wife,  direct 
or  indirect,  in  the  future?     It  annoys  me. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
Everything  annoys  you  this  afternoon. 

Theodore. 

You  were  at  it  last  night,  at  the  Carlton.  And  to-day, 
during  lunch 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

[In  an  injured  tone.]  It  was  you  who  told  me  that  that 
little  Jew  chap  had  met  her  careering  about  Italy  with 
young  what's-his-name.    [He  sits  in  the  armchair  at  the 


134  MID-CHANNEL 

further  end  of  the  settee  and  leans  his  head  on  his  hattd.~\ 
Ah,  but  that  was  in  your  loving  days — when  you  used  to 
confide  in  me. 

Theodore. 

I  was  in  a  rage  and  said  a  great  deal  more  than  I 
thought. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

If  you  did,  you  needn't  jump  on  me  for  trying  to  feel 
interested  in  you  and  your  affairs. 

Theodore. 

[Facing  her.~]  At  any  rate,  understand  me  clearly, 
Alice — and  then  drop  the  subject.  [Shortly.']  Mrs.  Blun- 
dell  and  I  are  separated  ;  she's  gone  one  way,  I  another. 
There  were  faults  on  both  sides,  as  usual,  but  I  was 
mainly  to  blame.     There's  the  thing  in  a  nutshell. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
This  isn't  in  the  least  your  old  story. 

Theodore. 

Never  mind  my  old  story.  [Extending  a  forefinger.] 
You  forget  the  old  story,  my  girl,  if  you  wish  our  ac- 
quaintance to  continue — d'ye  hear? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Shaking  herself.]    You're  a  nasty  savage. 

Theodore. 

As  for  that  interfering  cad  Lowenstein,  it  unfortunately 
happens  that  one  of  Mrs.  Blundell's  characteristics  is  a 
habit  of  disregarding  les  convenances — a  habit  which  I 
didn't  go  the  right  way  to  check.  It's  probable  that, 
before  she's  done,  she  won't  leave  herself  with  as  much 
reputation   as  'ud   cover  a  sixpence.     She's  impulsive, 


3IID-CHANNEL  135 

reckless,  a  fool — but  she's  no  worse.  {Eying  the  stump 
of  his  cigar  fiercely^]  My  wife's  no  worse.  So,  hands  off, 
if  you  please,  in  my  presence.  Whatever  reports  are  cir- 
culated to  her  discredit,  the  man  who  speaks  against  her 
in  my  hearing  is  kicked  for  his  pains  ;  and  the  woman 
who  does  so,  if  she's  under  my  roof,  gets  taken  by  the 
shoulders  and  shown  the  mat.  {Looking  at  her.']  Com- 
prenez  f 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
{Pouting^    I  should  be  a  juggins  if  I  didn't.     Parfaite- 
ment—m  my  very  best  French. 

Theodore. 
{Rising  and  walking  about.']    That's  settled,  then. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
{After  a  pause,  rising  and  depositing  her  cup  upon  the 
table  on  the  left— thoughtfully .]    Boy  dear 

Theodore. 
{At  the  back.]    Hey  ? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
It  was   regular  cat-and-dog   between  you  two  at  the 
end,  wasn't  it? 

Theodore. 
{Breaking  out  again.]    It's  no  concern  of  yours  whether 
it  was  or  was  not.     I've  asked  you 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
{Crossing  to  the  right,  with  a  shrug.]    Oh ! 

Theodore. 
Yes,  it  was.     {Half-sitting  upon  the  back  of  the  settee  on 
the  left.]    I— I  tired  of  her. 


130  MID-CHANNEL 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Philosophically.]    Ah,  men  do  tire. 

Theodore. 

And  she  of  me.     We'd  been  married  close  upon  four- 
teen years. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

Oh,  well,  come  ;  that's  a  long  while. 

Theodore. 
[As  much  to  himself  as  to  her.']    Our  wedding-day's  on 
the  thirtieth  of  this  month.    [Hitting  the  back  of  the  settee 
softly  with  his  fist.]    We'd  reached  a  time  in  our  lives 
when — when  we  were  in  mid-Channel 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
Mid-Channel? 

Theodore. 

[Rising."]    Oh,  you  don't  know  anything  about  that. 

[  There  is  a  further  silence.  She  sits  upon  the  set- 
tee on  the  right,  watching  him  as  he  moves 
about  the  room  again. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

Here  !  [Beckoning  him  zoith  a  motion  of  her  head.] 
Here  !  [He  goes  to  her.  She  looks  up  into  his  face .]  Why 
don't  you  marry  me,  Theo  ? 

•  Theodore. 
[Staring  at  her.]    Marry — you  ? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
You'd  find  me  awfully  easy  to  get  on  with. 

Theodore. 
[Turning from  her,  quietly :]    Oh ! 


MID-CHANNEL  137 

Mrs.  Annerlv. 
Wait;  you  might  listen,  anyhow.    [He  turns  to  her.']    I 

am awfully  easy  to  gel  on  with.      And   I'd  be  as  strict 

as as  strict  as  a  nun.      Honest  injun!     I  treated  Annerly 

pretty  badly,  but  that's  ancient  history.  I  was  only  sev- 
enteen when  I  married  Frank — too  inexperienced  for 
words.      I've  learnt  a  lot  since. 

Theodore. 
[Bitterly.']    Ha! 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
Now,  don't  be   satirical.    [Inviting  him  to  sit  by  her 

side.]    Theo \_He  sits  beside  her.]    I  say— bar  chaff— 

I  wish  you  would. 

Theodore. 

[Absently.]    What? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

Marry  me.  Really  I  do.  [A  note  of  wistfulness  in  her 
voice.]  I  really  do  want  to  re-establish  myself.  My  life, 
these  past  few  years,  has  been  frightfully  unsatisfactory. 

Theodore. 
[  Touching  her  dress,  sympathetically.]    Ah  ! 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
And  I'm  a  lady,  remember — giddy  as  I  may  have  been. 
Put  me  in  any  society  and  I'm  presentable,  as  far  as  man- 
ners go.  I'd  soon  right  myself,  with  your  assistance. 
[Slipping  her  arm  through  his.]  I  suppose,  under  the 
circumstances,  you  couldn't  divorce  her,  could  you? 

Theodore. 
What  d'ye  mean? 


138  MID-CHANNEL 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
Your  wife — over  that  Italian  business. 

Theodore. 
[  Jumping  up.]    Damn  ! 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon ;  it  slipped  out.  [He  walks 
away  to  the  table  at  the  back  and  begins  to  mix  himself  a 
whiskey-and-soda.~\  I'm  dreadfully  grieved  ;  gospel,  I  am. 
[Rising.']  Don't — don't,  boy  dear.  Do  leave  that  stuff 
alone.  \_He  puts  down  the  decanter  and  comes  to  the  settee 
on  the  left.]    I  can't  do  more  than  apologize. 

Theodore. 
[Sitting.']    Tsch  !     Hold  your  tongue. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Sitting  beside  him.']  No,  but  you  could  let  her  go  for 
you,  though  ;  that  could  be  fixed  up.  I'd  even  consent 
to  be  dragged  into  the  case  myself,  if  it  would  help  mat- 
ters forward  ;  and  goodness  knows  I've  no  ambition  to 
appear  in  the  Divorce  Court  again — I  hate  the  hole. 
[Coaxingly.]    You  will  consider  it,  won't  you? 

mm 
Theodore. 

Consider  zvhatf 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
Marrying  me.     Just  say  you'll  consider  it  and  I  won't 
tease  you  any  more  to-day.     You  do  owe  me  something, 
you  know. 

Theodore. 
Owe  you ? 


MID-CHANNEL  139 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
Well,  you  have  compromised  me  by  being  seen  about 
with  me  at  different  places  lately;  now,  haven't  you? 
[Theodore  throws  his  head  back  and ' laughs  boisterously.] 
There's  nothing  to  laugh  at.  Perhaps  I  haven't  a  shred 
of  character  left,  in  your  estimation  ! 


Theodore. 


Ho,  ho ! 


Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Rising,  piqued.]    I  presume  you  think  I'm  a  person 
who'll  accept  a  dinner  at  a  restaurant  from  any  man  who 
holds  up  a  finger  to  me  ! 

Theodore. 

Why,  my  dear  girl,  you  were  always  bothering  me  to 
take  you  to  the  cook-shops. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
Bothering  !    [Going  to  the  chair  on  the  right  of  the  fire- 
place and  gathering  up  her  scarf.]    Oh,  you're  too  rude  ! 

Theodore. 

/  was  perfectly  content  with  our  quiet  little  meals  here 
or  in  Egerton  Crescent. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
Yes,  and  to  bore  me  to  tears ! 

Theodore. 
Bore ? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[  Winding  her  scarf  round  her  shoulders.]   Bore,  bore, 
bore  ! 


140  MID-CHANNEL 

Theodore. 
[Scowling.]    Oh,  I — I  bored  you,  did  I  ?    - 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

Talking  to  me,  as  you  used  to,  like  a  sentimental  young 
fellow  of  tive-and-twenty  !  Ridiculous  !  [Picking  up  her 
gloves.]    1  want  a  taxi-cab. 

Theodore. 
[Rising.']   Stop — stop 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
I've  had  quite  sufficient  of  you  for  to-day. 

Theodore. 

[With  a  set  jaw.]  I'm  glad  you've  brought  matters  to 
a  head,  Ally.     I've  something  to  propose  to  you. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Pulling  on  a  glove.]    I've  no  desire  to  hear  it. 

Theodore. 

Something  that's  been  on  my  mind  for — oh,  a  month 
or  more. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

You  can  keep  it  to  yourself.  I'm  not  accustomed  to 
being  jeered  at. 

Theodore. 

[Slowly  walking  over  to  the  right.]  I'm  sorry  if  I've 
hurt  your  feelings 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
It's  the  first  time  I've  ever  made  advances  to  a  man, 
and  I  assure  you  it'll  be  the  last. 


MID-CHANNEL  141 

Theodore. 
Ally 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

[Moving  toward  'the  double-door.']  Cole  will  get  me  a 
Taxi. 

Theodore. 
[Authoritatively.]    Come  here  ;  come  here  ;  come  here. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Ha/ting  behind  the  settee  on  the  left,  with  a  twist  of  her 
body.]    I  shall  not. 

Theodore. 

[Snapping  his  finger  and  thumb.]  Ally — [she  ap- 
proaches him  with  assumed  reluctance]  Ally — [deliber- 
ately] what' 11  you  take? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Elevating  her  brows.]    Take  ? 

Theodore. 
To  put  an  end  to  this. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
An  end ! 

Theodore. 

To  end   your   boredom — and  mine  ;   terminate  our — 

friendship. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

[Uncomfortably.]  Oh,  you — you  needn't  cut  up  as 
rough  as  all  this. 


142  MID-CHANNEL 

Theodore. 

Ah,  no,  no,  no  ;  I'm  not  angry.  I'm  in  earnest, 
though.  Come!  What' 11  satisfy  you?  [She  curls  her 
lip  fretfully.]  A  man  of  my  years  deserves  to  pay  heavily 
at  this  game.  What'll  make  you  easy  and  comfortable 
for  a  bit?  I'll  be  liberal  with  you,  my  dear,  and—  [ojfer- 
ing  his  hand']  shake  hands — [she  turns  her  shoulder  to 
him]  shake  hands — [she  gives  him  her  hand  sulkily]  and 
I — I'll  ask  you  to  forgive  me 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Withdrawing  her  hand.]     Oh,    for  goodness'    sake, 
don't   let's   have   any  more  of  that.     [Contemptuously.] 
You  elderlies  always  wind  up  in  the  same  way. 

[He  seats  himself  at  the  writing-table  and,  unlock- 
ing a  drawer,  produces  his  check-book. 

Theodore. 
Would  a  couple  of  thousand  be  of  any  service  to  you? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Opening  her  eyes  widely.]    A  couple  of I 

Theodore. 
[Preparing  to  write.]    I  mean  it. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

[Breathlessly.]  You  don't !  [He  writes.]  Why,  of 
course  it  would.  [Melting  completely]  Oh,  but  it's  too 
much  ;  it  is  positively.  I  couldn't.  And  I've  had  such 
a  lot  out  of  you  already.  You  are  generous.  [Behind 
his  chair.]  Fancy  my  being  huffy  with  you  just  now! 
[Bending  over  him  and  arresting  his  pen.]    Boy  dear 

Theodore. 
Hey? 


MID-CHANNEL  143 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[/;/  a  whisper.']    Make  it — three — will  you  ?    \_He  looks 
at  her  over  his   shoulder  with  a  cynical  smile.     She  re- 
treats.]  Oh,  well  !    One  isn't  young  and  attractive  for- 
ever, you  know. 

[He  finishes  writing  the  check  and,  having  locked 
up  his  check-book  methodically,  rises  and  comes 
to  her. 

Theodore. 
\_Giving  her  the  check.]    There  you  are. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

{Examining  it.]  You— you've  split  the  difference  ! 
You  are  kind.  I  didn't  expect  it  in  the  least.  [Folding 
the  check  neatly  and  finding  a  place  for  it  in  her  bosom.] 
I  am  ashamed  of  myself  for  hinting  so  broadly.  Thanks, 
a  hundred  times.  [Blinking  at  him.]  Sha'n't  I  miss  you  ! 
[Cole  enters  at  the  double-door  followed  by  Peter. 

Cole. 
Mr.  Mottram. 

Theodore. 

[Greeting    Peter   at  the  fireplace  as   Cole   retires.] 
Hallo ! 

Peter. 
Hallo!    [Bowing  to  Mrs.  Annerly.]    How  d'ye  do? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

[Who  has  moved  over  to  the  right — distantly.]    How  do 
you  do? 

Theodore. 

[To  Mrs.  Annerly.]    By-the-bye,  did   you   say   you 
want  a  taxi-cab  ? 


144  MID-CHANNEL 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
If  I'm  not  troubling  you. 

[Theodore  goes  out  at  the  double-door,  closing  it 
upon  Peter  and  Mrs.  Annerly.  There  is  a 
pause.  Mrs.  Annerly,  pulling  on  her  second 
glove,  looks  out  of  the  window  ;  Peter  whistles 
silently. 

Peter. 

\_After  awhile.~\    Fine  afternoon. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
Delightful.    [After  another  pause,  turning  to  him.']    Er 
— h'm — how  do  you  think  he's  looking  ? 

Peter. 
Blundell?     Seen  him  looking  better. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

[With  a  sigh.~\  Ah!  [/;/  a  mincing  voice,  approaching 
Peter.]  Mr.  Mottram,  will  you  excuse  me  for  offering  a 
suggestion  ? 

Peter. 

[Politely. ,]    Fire  away. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Sweetly.]   Why  don't  you  use  your  endeavors  to  bring 
Blundell  and  his  wife  together  again? 

Peter. 
[Staring  at  her.]    Eh  ? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
It  would  be  such  a  good  thing,  wouldn't  it? 

Peter. 
I  agree  with  you  ;  it  would  indeed. 


MID- CHANNEL  145 

Mrs.  Annerly.. 
I've  done  all  I  can  to  persuade  him.    [Peter's  eyes 
open  wider  and  wider.     She  busies  herself  daintily  with  her 
glove.~\   And  now,  as  he  and  I  are  breaking  oft"  with  one 
another 

Peter. 

[Quickly.]    I  beg  pardon? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
Perhaps_y0«7/take  on  the  job— see  what  you  can  do. 

Peter. 
Breaking  off ? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Loftily.]   Yes ;   I   can't    stand    the    annoyance    any 
longer. 

Peter. 
Annoyance  ? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
People  are  so  spiteful.     It's  shocking — the  ill-natured 
construction  they  put  upon  the  most  harmless  little  friendly 
acts!     I  admit  I'm  rather  a  careless  woman — haven't  I 
suffered  from  it ! 

Peter. 
[Delicately.']    Then,  do    I    happen— may  I  ask— to  be 

assistin'  at  the  grand  finale ? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
Certainly — [with  sudden  mistrust.]    Don't  you  try  to 
pull  my  leg,  Mr.  Mottram,  please. 

[She  draws  her  skirt  aside  and  passes  him  haugh- 


I4(i  MID-CHANNEL 

lily  as  Tn  1:01  joke  returns.  Then  she  goes  out, 
followed  by  THEODORE,  who  closes  the  door; 
whereupon  Peter  skips  to  the  piano,  scats  him- 
self at  it,  and  strikes  up  a  lively  air.  Pres- 
ently THEODORE  reappears,  shuts  the  door  again 
and  resumes  mixing  his  whiskey-and-soda. 

Theodore. 
Ouf!    [Peter    takes    his   hands  from  the  keyboard.] 
That's  over. 

Peter. 
[Innocently. ~\    Over? 

Theodore. 

You've  seen  the  last  of  that  lady,  as  far  as  I'm  con- 
cerned. \_He  comes  forward,  carrying  his  tumbler,  as 
Peter  rises-'}  What  d'ye  think  ?  [Grinning.']  She's  been 
at  me  to  marry  her. 

Peter. 
[Startled.]    Not  really  ! 

Theodore. 
To  get  rid  of— present  ties,  and  marry  her. 

Peter. 
When — when  did  she ? 

Theodore. 
Just  now — five   minutes  ago.    [Struck  by  an  odd  ex- 
pression in  Peter's  face.]    Why,  has  she  been  saying 
anything ? 

Peter. 
[Soberly.]    No,  no  ;  not  a  word. 


MID  CHA  NNEL  147 

Theodore. 
Poor  little  devil !    [Me  sits  upon  the  settee  on  the  left  and 
drinks.]    Poor — silly — little  devil ! 

Peter. 
[Coming  to  him.']    And  so  you  took  the  opportunity  of 
— er ?    [Theodore  nods.]   Just  so. 

Theodore. 
Ha !     I  expect  I  shall  hear  from  her  from  time  to  time. 

Peter. 

Till  the  end  o'  your  life.  [Another  nod  from  Theo- 
dore.] Or  hers.  And  the  nearer  the  end  the  oftener 
you'll  hear. 

Theodore. 
Well,  she    shall  have  a  trifle  whenever  she  wants  it. 
[Looking  at  Petek.]    That's  the  least  we  can  do,  ol'  man. 

Peter. 
Decidedly.     That's  the  least  we  can  do. 

Theodore. 
[Emptying  his  tumbler  and  jumping  up.]    Ugh  !    [Plac- 
ing the  glass  upon  the  table  at  the  end  of  the  settee^    I'll 
burn  some  pastilles  here  later  on.    [Confronting  Peter,] 
Yes,  you  can  have  your  crow  ;  you're  entitled  to  it. 

Peter. 
Crow  ? 

Theodore. 
Your  crow  over  me.     Everything's  turned  out  as  you 
predicted. 

Peter. 
[Demurely.]    Did  / ? 


148  MID-CHANNEL 

Theodore. 

You  know  you  did.  "  It's  when  the  sun's  work- 
ing round  to  the  west" — I  often  recall  your  damned 
words 

Peter. 
Ah,  that  day 

Theodore. 
The  day  I  left  Lancaster  Gate.  "It's  when  men  are 
where  we  are  now  " — you  remember? — "  it's  when  men 
are  where  we  are  now  that  they're  most  liable  to  fall  into 
mischief."  \_Walking  away.']  God!  the  idiot  I've  made 
of  myself! 

[He  goes   to   the  fireplace   and  leans   upon   the 
mantelpiece. 

Peter. 
[  Quietly.}    Theo 

Theodore. 
H'm? 

Peter. 

[Moving  to  the  settee  on  the  left.]  Talkin'  of  Lancaster 
Gate — I've  got  a  bit  o'  noos  for  you.  [Sitting  tipon  the 
settee.]  She's  home.  [There  is  no  response  from  Theo- 
dore.]   Zoe  I'm  speakin'  of.     She's  home. 

Theodore. 
[Leaving  the  fireplace.]    Thank'ee  ;  I  know. 

Peter. 
You  know  ? 

Theodore. 
I  was  there  on  Monday. 


MID-CHANNEL  149 

Peter. 
[Surprised.']    There? 

Theodore. 
Passing  the  house. 

Peter. 
Signs  o'  life  in  the  winders  ? 

Theodore. 

[Nodding.]     H'm.     [Coming  forward.]    You've   seen 
her? 

Peter. 
This  niornin'. 

Theodore. 
[Simply.]    I  was  there  again  this  morning. 

Peter. 
Passin'  the  house  ? 

Theodore. 
[Nodding.]    H'm. 

Peter. 
You   seem    to   take    a   great  deal  of  exercise  in  that 
locality. 

Theodore. 
[Forcing  a  laugh.]     Ha,  ha!     [Drearily.]    Well,  one 
had    good    times   there  as  well  as  bad  ;    and  when  one 
views  it  all  from  a  distance 

Peter. 

The  good  times  stand  out? 

[Without  replying,  Theodore  turns  from  Peter 
and  sits  upon  the  settee  on  the  right. 


150  MID-CHANNEL 

Theodore. 
[After  a  pause.']    How — how  did  you  find  her? 

Peter. 
She  ain't  up  to  much. 

Theodore. 
What's ? 

Peter. 

Chill. 

Theodore. 
Doctor?   [Peter  nods.]    Rashleigh  ? 

Peter. 
That's  the  feller.     Oh,  it's  nothin'  serious. 

Theodore. 

Chill?  Ha  !  I'll  be  bound  she  caught  it  through  do- 
ing something  foolish.  [Fidgeting  with  his  hands.]  She 
has  nobody  to  look  after  her — nobody  to  look  after  her. 

Peter. 
Her  maid 

Theodore. 

Lena?  Is  Lena  still  with  her?  [A  nod  from  Peter.] 
I'm  glad  Lena's  still  with  her.  Lena's  fond  of  her. 
[Starting  up  and  pacing  the  room.]  Not  that  Lena  can 
control  her;  a  maid  hasn't  any  authority.  [Stopping  be- 
fore Peter.]    She  isn't  very  poorly  ? 

Peter. 

No,  no.  A  little  pulled  down  ;  that's  all.  And  as 
charmin'  as  ever.  [Theodore  walks  away  and,  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  gazes  out  of  the  window.]  She  ain't 
sleepin'  ;  that's  the  real  bother. 


MID-CHANNEL  151 

Theodore. 


Not  sleeping  ? 


Peter. 
Walks  her  room  half  the  night  and  consooms  too  many 
cigarettes. 

Theodore. 

Why  ? 

Peter. 
I  can  only  give  you  my  impression 

Theodore. 
[Impatiently.]   Well  ? 

Peter. 
My  dear  chap,  d'ye  think  that  she  don't  recollect  the 
happy  times  as  well  as  the  bad  'uns?  Ain't  she  viewin' 
it  all  from  a  distance,  as  you  are  ;  [rising]  and  don't  the 
good  times  stand  out  in  her  mind  as  they  do  in  yours? 
[Approaching  Theodore.]    Theo 

Theodore. 
H'm? 

Peter. 
I  had  a  long  confab  with  her  this  mornin*. 

Theodore. 
What  about? 

Peter. 

The  possibility  of  a — a  reconciliation. 

[  There  is  a  pause  and  then  THEODORE  turns  to 
Peter. 


152  MID-CHANNEL 

Theodore. 
[In  a  husky  voice.]    Ho  !     So  that's  what  you're  after, 
is  it? 

Peter. 
Yes  ;  and  I'm  bent  on  carryin'  it  through. 

Theodore. 
You — you  meddlesome  old  buffer  ! 

Peter. 
[Chuckling.]    Ha,  ha  ! 

Theodore. 
How — how  did  she  take  it  ? 

Peter. 
In  a  way  that  convinced  me  you've  only  to  assure  her 
that  your  old  feelin's  for  her  have  returned,  and  in  spite 
of  everythin' 

Theodore. 
Everything  !     Wait  till  she  hears  of  sweet  Alice. 

Peter. 
Wait! 

Theodore. 
[Looking  at  Peter.]    Why,  d'ye  mean ? 

Peter. 
Oh,  yes  ;  it's  got  to  her. 

Theodore. 
lDu/ly.~]    Already? 


MID-CHANNEL  153 

Peter. 

Jim  Mallandain  traveled  with  her  from  Paris  on  Sun- 
day. 

Theodore. 
Did  he ? 

Peter. 
I  suppose  he  thought  it  'ud  amuse  her. 

Theodore. 
The  skunk  ! 

Peter. 
If  it  hadn't  been  Jim,  it  'ud  have  been  somebody  else. 

Theodore. 
[Thickly. ~\    You're  right  ;  somebody  had  to  be  first. 

Peter. 
However,  1  did  my  best  for  yer. 

Theodore. 
Denied  it? 

Peter. 

Warmly.     I  defended  you  and  the  young  lady  with  all 
the  eloquence  I  could  command. 

Theodore. 
Zoe  didn't  believe  you  ?  \_A  pause. ~\  She  didn't  believe 
you  ?  [Peter  shrugs  his  shoulders."]  Of  course  she  didn't. 
[Passing  Peter  and  walking  about  the  room.\  What  did 
she  say  ?  Hey  ?  Oh,  I  can  guess  ;  you  needn't  tell  me. 
What's  everybody  saying?  Peter,  I'd  give  half  as  much 
as  I'm  worth  to  wipe  the  Annerly  incident  off  my  slate. 
I  would,  on  the  nail.     Just  fancy  !     To  reach  my  age — 


154  MID-CHANNEL 

and  to  be  of  decent  repute — and  then  to  have  your  name 
linked  with  a  brainless,  mercenary  little  trull  like  Alice 
Annerly !  Ha,  ha!  Glorious  fun  for  em  in  the  city, 
and  at  tlie  club  !  You  hear  it  all.  Confound  you,  can't 
you  open  your  mouth  !  Ho  !  Of  course  Zoe  sums  it  all 
up;  she's  cute  enough  when  she  chooses.  [Sitting  upon 
the  settee  on  the  left  and  mopping  his  face  and  throat  with 
his  handkerchief.]    How  did  it  end  ? 

Peter. 
End? 

Theodore. 
Your  chat  with  my  missus. 

Peter. 

It  ended  in  my  urgin'  her  to  consider  the  matter — think 
it  over.  [Coming  to  him.']  I'm  dinin'  with  her  next  week. 
[Sitting  in  the  chair  at  the  further  end  of  the  settee.]  If 
you'll  authorize  me  to  open  negotiations  with  heron  your 
behalf 

Theodore. 
I — I  approach  her ! 

Peter. 
Cert'nly. 

Theodore. 
[Twisting  his  handkerchief  into  a  rope.]   No — no 

Peter. 
Why  not? 

Theodore. 
A  couple  o'  months  back  I  could  have  done  it.     Even 
as  late  as  a  fortnight  ago — before  I'd  given  myself  away 


MID-CHANNEL  155 

by  showing  myself  in  public  with  Alice — it  might  have 
been  feasible.  \_Belween  his  teeth.']  But  now — when  I — 
when  I've  lost  any  remnant  of  claim  I  may  have  had — 
on  her  respect ! 

Peter. 
[/;/   his  judicial  manner.]    My    dear   chap,  here   is  a 
case 

Theodore. 

Hell  with  you  and  your  case  !    [Jumping  up  and  walk* 

ing  away  to  the  right.]  I  couldn't  screw  myself  up  to  it  ; 
I_I  couldn't  humble  myself  to  that  extent.  [Moving 
about.]  Ho  !  How  she'd  grin  !  She's  got  a  cruel  sense 
o'  humor,  Peter — or  had  once.  You  see,  I  always  posed 
to  her  as  being  a  strong,  rather  cold-blooded  man 

Peter. 
A  favorite  pose,  that,  of  husbands. 

Theodore. 

It  was  more  than   a    pose — I   thought   I  was  a  strong 
man.      And     then — to    crawl    back    to    her — all    over 

mud ! 

\_He  halts  in  the  middle  of  the  room  and,  with  a 
shaky  hand,  produces  his  cigar  case  from  his 
pocket  and  takes  out  a  cigar. 

Peter. 
I  was  about  to  remark,  when  you  chipped  in  with  your 
usual  politeness — I  was  about  to  remark  that  this  is  a  case 
where  two  persons  have  behaved  more  or  less  stoopidly. 

Theodore. 

Two ? 

Peter. 
You  more,  she  less. 


156  MID-  CUA  NNEL 

Theodore. 

[His  brovj  darkening]    You— you're  referring  to ? 

Peter. 
Er — Mrs.  Zoe 

Theodore. 
[Cutting  his  cigar  viciously.']    With— Ferris. 

Peter. 
Yes ;  and  I  think  that  the  friend  of  both  parties— the 
individual  on  whose  shoulders  the  task  of  adjustin'  mat- 
ter would  fall— [rising]  I  think  that  that  friend  might 
manage  to  impose  a  condition  which  'ud  be  greatly  to 
your  advantage. 

Theodore. 
Condition  ? 

Peter. 
No  imputations  to  be  made  on  either  side. 

Theodore. 
[BroodinglyJ]    No— imputations ? 

Peter. 
Each  party  acceptin'  the  statement  of  the  other  party, 
and    promisin'   not   to  rake  up  anythin'   that's  occurred 
durin'  the  past  four  months. 

Theodore. 
I — I  understand. 

Peter. 
It  'ud  help  to  save  your  face  for  the  moment,  and  the 
healin'  hand  of  time  might  be  trusted  to  do  the  rest. 


MI D-  CHA  NNEL  \  57 

Theodore. 
[ Quietly.']    Peter 

Peter. 
Hallo ! 

Theodore. 

When  I  was  at  the  house  on  Monday — my  wife's  house 
— half-past  eleven  in  the  morning 

Peter. 
Well  ? 

Theodore. 
There  was  a  yellow  car  at  the  door. 

Peter. 
Yaller  car? 

Theodore. 
I  couldn't  get  near,  but — that  fellow  has  a  yellow  car. 

Peter. 
Has  he  ? 

Theodore. 
[Grimly.']    Why,  he's  driven  you  in  it. 

Peter. 
[Carelessly.]    I'd  forgotten. 

Theodore. 

[Looking  at  Peter.]  He's  still  hanging  on  to  her  skirts, 
hey  ? 

Peter. 

He's  an  ill-bred,  tactless  cub.  But  he's  got  a  nice 
'ead  of  'air  and  smells  o'  soap ;  and  that's  the  sort 
women  love  to  have  danglin'  about  after  'em. 


158  31 ID-CHANNEL 

Theodore. 

[With  an  effort.']  There — there's  nothing  in  it,  Peter, 
beyond  that? 

Peter. 
[  Waving  his  hand  disdainfully^]    Good  God  ! 

Theodore. 

Oh,  I  know  there  isn't  ;  I  know  there  isn't.  With  all 
her  faults,  I  know  she's  as  straight  as  a  die.  [Looking  at 
Peter  again.'}    Did  you  touch  on  the  subject  with  her? 

Peter. 

[Nodding.]  I  rubbed  it  in.  I  told  her  her  conduct  had 
been  indiscreet  to  a  degree.  I  thought  it  policy  to  rub 
it  in. 

Theodore. 
Did  she — offer  any  explanation? 

Peter. 
[Nodding.']    Pure  thoughtlessness. 

Theodore. 
And  you  felt  that  she  was— speaking  the  truth? 

Petek. 
[Testily.]    My  dear  Theodore 

Theodore. 
You    swear    that?     [Suddenly,  grasping   the   lapel  of 
Peter's  coat]    Damn  it,  man,  you  began  talking  about 

the  thing ! 

[Cole  enters  at  the  douole-door  carrying  a  note  in 
the  shape  of  a  cocked-hat. 

Theodore. 
[Angrily.]    What  d'ye  want? 


3I1D-CHANNEL  159 

Cole. 
1  beg  your  pardon,  sir. 

Theodore. 

[Going  to  him.']    Hey  ? 

[He  snatches  the  note  from  the  man  and,  as  he 
glances  at  the  writing  on  it,  his  jaw  drops. 

Cole. 
[In  a  low  voice.]   An  answer,  sir? 

Theodore. 
[Trying  to  unfold  the  note.]    Messenger  ? 

Cole. 

The  lady  herself,  I  think,  sir. 

[There  is  a  pause,  and  then  Theodore  slowly  gets 
the  note  open  and  reads  it. 

Theodore. 
[  To  Cole.]    Where ? 

Cole. 

In  the  smoking-room,  sir. 

Theodore. 
Er — wait. 

Cole. 

Yessir.  [Cole  withdraws. 

Theodore. 

[To  Peter,  who  has  wandered  away.]    Peter 

[Peter  comes  to  him  and  Theodore  hands  him 
the  note.  Peter's  eyes  bolt  as  he  recognizes 
the  handwriting. 


1 60  MID-  CHA  NNEL 


Peter. 


[Reading  the  note.']  ' '  Will  you  see  me  ? ' '  Short — [ex- 
amining  both  sides  of  the  paper  and  then  returning  the  note 
to  Theodore]   sweet. 

Theodore. 
[Chewing  his  unlighted cigar.~\     This  is  your  doing. 

Peter. 

[Beaming.']  I  flatter  myself  it  must  be.  [Laying  a 
hand  on  Theodore's  shoulder.]  My  dear  Theo,  this  puts 
a  noo  aspect  on  the  affair — clears  the  air. 

Theodore. 
New  aspect ? 

Peter. 

She  makes  the  first  advances,  dear  kind  soul  as  she  is. 
[A  pause.]    Shall  I — fetch  her  in  ? 

Theodore. 

Hold  hard,  hold  hard  ;  don't  be  in  such  a  devil  of  a 
hurry. 

[He  leaves  Peter  and  seats  himself  in  a  heap  in 
the  chair  on  the  right  of  the  fireplace.  Peter 
moves  softly  to  the  double-door. 

Peter. 

[His  hand  on  the  door-handle — to  Theodore.]  May  I  ? 
[Theodore  raises  his  head  and  nods.  Peter 
goes  out.  As  the  door  closes,  Theodore  gets  to 
his  feet  and  flings  his  cigar  into  the  grate. 
Then,  hastily,  he  proceeds  to  put  the  room  in 
order,  closing  the  piano  and  beating  out  and  re- 
arranging the  pillows  on  the  settees.  Finally, 
he  comes  upon  Mrs.  Annerly's  empty  coffee- 
cup,  picks  it  up,  and  vanishes  with  it  into  the 


MID-CHANNEL  161 

dining-room.  After  a  little  while,  the  double- 
door  opens  and  Peter  returns.  He  glances 
round  the  room,  looks  surprised  at  not  finding 
Theodore  and,  with  a  motion  of  the  head,  in- 
vites Zoe  to  enter.  Presently  she  appears,  beau- 
tifully dressed.  She  also  looks  round;  and, 
passing  Peter,  she  moves  tremblingly  to  the 
fireplace.     He  closes  the  door  and  joins  her. 

Peter. 
[To  Zoe.]    You're  a  brick  to  do  this. 

Zoe. 
\_Almost  inaudibly.~\    Am  I  ? 

Peter. 
You'll  never  regret  it. 

Zoe. 
[Clutching  Peter's  arm.~\    He  will  be — kind  to  me  ? 

Peter. 
As  kind  as  you  are  to  him. 

Zoe. 

[Drawing  a  deep  breath.~\  Ah  !  [She  sits  upon  the  set- 
tee on  the  right  and  her  eyes  roam  about  the  room.~\  What 
a  ripping  flat ! 

Peter. 

[Disparagi?igly.~]    Oh,  1  dun'no. 

Zoe. 

[With  a  wry  mouth,  plaintively. ~\  He  has  been  doing 
himself  jolly  well,  in  all  conscience. 

[The  dining-room  door  opens  and  Theodore  ap- 
pears.    He  shuts  the  door  and  edges  toward 
Peter  who  leads  him  to  Zoe. 


162  MID-CHANNEL 

Peter. 

My  dear  old  pals 


[Zoe  gets  to  her  feet  and  Theodore  awkwardly 
holds  out  his  hand  to  her. 

Theodore. 
How  are  you,  Zoe  ? 

Zoe. 

Fairly — thanks 

[She  hurriedly  produces  her  handkerchief  from  a 
gold  bag  hangingfrom  her  wrist  and  moves 
away  to  the  left.  There  she  sits  upon  the  settee, 
struggling  to  command  herself  Peter  gives 
Theodore's  arm  a  friendly  grip  and  makes 
for  the  double-door.  As  he  passes  behind  the 
settee  on  which  Zoe  is  seated,  he  stops  to  pat 
her  shoulder. 

Zoe. 

[In  a  whisper,   seizing  his  hand.~\    Don't  go,   Peter; 
don't  go. 

[He  releases  his  hand,  gives  hers  a  reassuring 
squeeze,  and  goes  to  the  door. 

Peter. 
[At  the  door,  to  Theodore.]    I  shall  be  in  the  City  till 
six. 

[He  departs.  After  a  silence,  Theodore  ap- 
proaches Zoe.  They  carefully  avoid  meeting 
each  other  s  eyes. 

Theodore. 
It — it's  very  good  of  you,  Zo,  to — to  hunt  me  up. 

Zoe. 

I — I  went  first  to  Copthall  Court.    [Wiping  a  tear  from 
her  cheek.]    I — I  thought  I  should  find  you  there. 


MID-CHANNEL  J  63 

Theodore. 
I— I  haven't  been  at  all  regular  at  the  office  lately.    [A 
pause.      They  look  about  the  room  in  opposite  directions.'] 
Er— Peter  tells  me  he  had  a  little  talk    with    you  this 
morning. 

Zoe. 
Y-yes. 

Theodore. 
About  our — being  reconciled. 

Zoe. 
Yes, 

Theodore. 
W-well  ?  [She  puts  her  handkerchief  away  and  takes 
from  her  bag  a  torn  envelope  with  some  inclosures.  She 
gives  it  to  him  timidly  and  he  extracts  from  the  envelope  a 
letter  and  a  key.]  The — the  damned  cruel  letter  I  left  be- 
hind me — that  evening — with  my  latch-key.  [She  inclines 
her  head.]    May  I — destroy  it? 

[She  nods  assent,  and  he  tears  up  the  envelope  and 
letter  and  crams  the  pieces  into  his  trouser- 
pocket. 

Theodore. 
[Looking  at  the  key.]    The — the  key ? 


Zoe. 
It — it's  yours  again — if  you  like. 

Theodore. 

You — you're    willing ?     [Again    she    inclines    her 

head,  and  he  puts  the  key  into  a  pocket  in  his  waistcoat 
and  seats  himself  humbly  in  the  chair  at  the  further  end 
of  the  settee 7]    Thank'ee.    [After  a  pause.]    Zo 


164  MID-CHANNEL 

ZOE. 

Yes? 

Theodore. 

[  Turning  to  her  but  not  lifting  his  eyes.~\  Look  here. 
I'm  not  going  to — try  to  deceive  you.  1— I  want  you  to 
understand  exactly  what  you're  offering  to  take  back. 

Zoe. 

Exactly ?     f 

Theodore. 

1  gather  from  Peter  that  you  came  over  from  Paris  on 
Sunday  in  the  company  of  Mr.  Jim  Mallandain. 

Zoe. 
I  picked  him  up  by  chance  at  the  Gare  du  Nord, 

Theodore. 

And  Mr.  Jim  whiled  away  the  journey  by — by  gossip- 
ing to  you  about  me  and — a  woman  of  the  name  of 
Annerly  ? 

Zoe. 
On  the  boat. 

Theodore. 
Quite  so.    \_A  pause  7\    When  you  mentioned  the  matter 
to  Peter,  he  produced  the  whitewash  bucket,  didn't  he? 

Zoe. 
Slapped  it  on  thick. 

Theodore. 

[Looking   at   her  from    under  his   brows.~\     But   you 

didn't ?  [She shakes  her head.~\   You're  right  ;  Peter's 

a  liar.     It's  a  true  bill.     I  wish  it  wasn't  ;  but  it  is. 


MID-CHANNEL  165 

ZOE. 

[After  a  pause,  steadily, .]    Well  ? 

Theodore. 

[Looking  at  her  again.~\  Are  you  prepared  to  forgive 
me  that  too,  then  ?  [She  nods,  but  with  compressed  lips. 
He  bows  his  head.~\  Anyhow,  I'm  easier  for  making  a 
clean  breast  of  it. 

Zoe. 
How — how  did  you — come  to ? 


Theodore. 

Lower  myself  with  this  hussy?  [Looking  up. ~\  Isn't  it 
all  of  a  piece?  Isn't  it  the  natural  finish  of  the  mistakes 
of  the  last  year  or  so — the  errors  we've  committed  since 
we  began  kicking  each  other's  shins?  \_Quickly.~]  Oh, 
I'm  not  reproaching  you  now  for  your  share  o'  the  trans- 
action. It  was  my  job — the  husband's  job — to  be  patient 
with  you  ;  to  smooth  you  down  gently,  and  to  wait.  But 
instead  of  doing  that,  I  let  my  mind  dwell  on  my  own 
grievances  ;  with  the  result  that  latterly  the  one  being  in 
the  world  I  envied  was  the  fellow  who'd  kept  his  liberty, 
or  who'd  had  the  pluck  to  knock  off  the  shackles.  [Ris- 
ing and  walking  about,  gathering  his  thoughts  as  he  pro- 
ceeds.'] Well,  I  got  my  freedom  at  last,  didn't  I  !  And  a 
nice  mess  I  made  of  it.  I  started  by  taking  a  furnished 
lodging  in  St.  James's  Street— sky-high,  quiet,  peaceful/ 
Ha  !  Hardly  a  fortnight  was  out  before  I  had  blue-devils 
and  was  groaning  to  myself  at  the  very  state  of  things  I'd 
been  longing  for.  Why  should  I  be  condemned,  I  said 
to  myself—why  should  I  be  condemned  to  an  infernal 
dull  life  while  others  round  me  were  enjoying  themselves 
like  fighting-cocks  !  And  just  then  this  flat  was  offered 
to  me  as  it  stands;  and  in  less  than  a  month  after  I'd 
slammed  the  front  door  at  Lancaster  Gate  I  was  giving  a 


160  M1D-VHANNEL 

dinner-party  here — a  housewarming — [halting  at  the  win- 
dow, his  back  to  Zoe]  a  dinner-party  to  four-and-twenty 
people,  and  not  all  of  'em  men. 

Zoe. 

[/;/  a  low  voice.~\  I  heard  of  your  setting  up  here  while 
I  was — in  Florence — [clenching  her  hands']  in  Florence. 

Theodore. 

[Resuming  his  walk.']  However,  so  far  it  was  nothing 
but  folly  on  my  part — egregious  folly.  And  so  it  con- 
tinued till  I — till  I  had  the  honor  of  being  introduced  to 
Mrs.  Annerly  at  a  supper  at  Jack  Poncerot's.  [Eying 
Zoe  askance.]  I  won't  give  you  the  details  of  the  pretty 
story  ;  your  imagination'll  supply  those — the  heading  o* 
the  chapters,  at  any  rate.  Chapter  One,  Conceit — I  had 
the  besotted  vanity  to  fancy  she — she  liked  me  and  was 
genuinely  sympathetic  toward  me  ;  [at  the  mantelpiece, 
looking  down  into  the  grate]  and  so  on  to  Chapter  the 
Last — the  chapter  with  the  inevitable  title — Disgust — 
Loathing ! 

Zoe. 

[Thoughtfully.]  You — you're  sure  you've  reached  the 
— the  final  chapter? 

Theodore. 

[Turning  to  her.]  Heavens,  yes!  [Shaking  himself.] 
It's  all  over.  I've  paid  her  off — to-day,  as  it  happens. 
I've  been  itching  to  doit  ;  and  I've  done  it.  [Sitting  upon 
the  settee  on  the  right.]  Another  month  of  her  society,  and 
I  believe  I'd  have  gone  to  the  dogs  completely.  [His  el- 
bows on  his  knees,  holding  his  head.]    Zo 

Zoe. 
Eh? 


MID-CHANNEL  167 

Theodore. 

Peter  says  you're  walking  your  room  half  the  night  and 
smoking  your  nerves  raw. 

Zoe. 
Does  he?     He  needn't  have  repeated 

Theodore. 

Zo,  I've  been  walking  this  horrible  flat  in  the  same  way. 
/  can't  get  to  bed  till  I  hear  the  rattle  of  the  milk-carts. 
And  I'm  smoking  too  much — and — not  only  that 

Zoe. 
{Looking  at  him  for  the  first  time.']    Not  only  what? 

Theodore. 

Well,  a  man  doesn't  smoke  till  four  or  five  o'clock  in 
the  morning  on  cocoa,  does  he  ? 

[  There  is  a  moment' s  silence,  and  then  she  rises  and 
goes  to  him. 

Zoe. 

Oh— Theo ! 

Theodore. 

[Looking  up  at  her.']  So  your  liberty  hasn't  made  you 
over  happy,  either,  has  it,  old  girl  ? 

Zoe. 
[Faintly.']    No. 

Theodore. 
You've  been  thinking,  too,  of  the  good  times  we've  had 
together,  hey  ? 

Zoe. 

Y-yes.  [He  rises  and  places  his  hands  upon  her  shoul- 
ders yearningly  as  if  about  to  draw  her  to  him.  She  shrinks 
from  him  with  a  startled  look.]    Theo 


168  MID-CHANNEL 

Theodore. 

[Dropping  his  hands.']    What  ? 

Zoe. 

[Nervously.]  There — there's  one  thing  I — I  want  to  say 
to  you — before  we — before  we  go  further 

Theodore. 

[Feeling  the  rebtiff^]    H'm? 

Zoe. 

As  I've  told  you,  I'm  willing  that  you  should  return  to 
Lancaster  Gate.  You  may  return  as  soon  as  you  please  ; 
but 

Theodore. 
But? 

Zoe. 
It  must  be — simply  as  a  companion,  Theo  ;  a  friend. 

Theodore. 
[Stiffly.]    A  friend  ? 

Zoe. 

\_With  a  slight  shrug.]  Not  that  we've  been  much  else 
to  each  other  these  last  few  years — except  enemies. 
Still 

Theodore. 
[Frowning.]    You  wish  to  make  it  perfectly  clear. 

Zoe. 
Yes. 


MID-CHANNEL  169 

Theodore. 

[After  a  pattse,  icily.~\  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  was  for- 
getting myself  just  now.  Thanks  for  the  reminder. 
[Walking  away from  her.]  Oh,  I  know  you  can  feel  only 
the  most  utter  contempt  for  me — wholesale  contempt. 

Zoe. 
[Entreatingly.]    Ah,  no  ;  don't  take  that  tone. 

Theodore. 
Stand  the  naughty  boy  in  the  coiner  ;  he's  earned  any 
amount  of  humiliation  you  choose  to  inflict. 

Zoe. 
You  shall  never  be  humiliated  by  me,  Theo. 

,     Theodore. 

{Throwing  himself  upon  the  settee  on  the  /eft.']  Evi- 
dently ! 

Zoe. 

[  Turning  away.]  Oh,  for  God's  sake,  don't  let's  begin 
fighting  again  ;  [silting  on  the  settee  on  the  right]  don't 
let's  do  that. 

Theodore. 

Ha,  ha !  No,  no  ;  we  won't  squabble.  Right  you  are  ; 
I  accept  the  terms — any  terms.  [Lying  at  full  length  upon 
his  back  on  the  settee.]  As  you  say,  we've  been  little  more 
than  friends  of  late  years — good  friends  or  bad.  ['Throw- 
ing one  leg  over  the  other.]  It's  your  laying  down  the  law 
so  emphatically  that  riled  me.  Sorry  I  growled.  [There 
is  silence  between  them.  She  watches  him  guiltily.  Sud- 
denly he  changes  the  position  of  his  legs.]    Zo 

Zoe. 
Yes? 


170  MID-CHANNEL 

Theodore. 

[Gazing  at  the  ceiling.]  At  the  same  time,  I'm  blessed 
if  1  wouldn't  rather  you  wanted  to  tear  my  eyes  out  than 
that  you  should  treat  me  in  this  lofty,  condescending  style 
— scratch  my  face  and  tear  my  eyes  out. 

Zoe. 
Well,  I — I  don't,  you  see. 

Theodore. 

[Smiling  unpleasantly.']  Alice  Annerly's  an  extremely 
handsome  creature,  my  dear,  whatever  else  she  may  be. 

Zoe. 
I'm— I'm  sure  of  it. 

Theodore. 
Her  photo's  on  the  top  of  the  piano. 

Zoe. 

[Restraining  an  impulse  to  glance  over  her  shoulder.] 
I — I'm  not  curious. 

Theodore. 

Ho!  You  mayn't  be  aware  of  the  fact,  but  I've  paid 
you  the  compliment  of  resenting  the  deep  devotion  your 
pet  poodle — Master  Lenny  Ferris — has  been  paying  you 
recently.  You  might  do  me  a  similar  honor.  [Medi- 
tatively.]   Master — blooming — Lenny =!    [Again  there 

is  a  pause  ;  and  then,  slowly,  he  turns  upon  his  side  so  that 
he  may  face  her.]  I  say,  that  was  a  pretty  disgraceful 
business — your  trapesing  about  Italy  with  that  fellow. 
[Another pause.]    Hey  ? 

Zoe. 
[Holding  her  breath^]    It  was — unwise  of  me,  I  own. 


MID-CHANNEL  171 

Theodore. 

Unwise !  Peter  and  I  were  discussing  it  when  your 
note  was  brought  in. 

Zoe. 
\_Moislening  her  lips.~\    Were  you? 

Theodore. 

[Harshly.]  Yes,  we  were.  [Another  pause.']  My  God, 
I  think  it's  /  who  ought  to  dictate  what  our  domestic 
arrangements  are  to  be  in  the  future — not  you  !  [A  pause. 
With  a  motion  of  the  head,  he  invites  her  to  come  to  him"] 

Zoe [A pause, .]    Don't  you  hear  me  ! 

[She  hesitates ;  then  she  nerves  herself  and  rises 
and,  with  a  light  step,  crosses  the  room. 

Zoe. 

[Resting  her  arms  on  the  back  of  the  chair  at  the  further 
end  of  the  settee  on  which  he  is  lying.]  Still  the  same  dear 
old  bully,  I  notice. 

Theodore. 
Sit  down. 

Zoe. 
Your  gentle  voice  is  quite  audible  where  I  am. 

Theodore. 

[Putting  his  feet  to  the  ground^]  You  sit  down  a 
minute. 

Zoe. 
Pub!  [She  sits  haughtily. 

Theodore. 

Now,  you  look  here,  my  lady  ;  I  should  like  an  ac- 
count of  that  Italian  affair  from  the  word  go. 


J72  MID-CHANNEL 

Zoe. 
I'm  not  in  the  mood  to  furnish  it. 

Theodore. 

Perhaps  not  ;  but  I'm  in  the  mood  to  receive  it.  [A 
pause.~\    When  did  he  join  you  ? 

Zoe. 
He — he  didn't  join  me  ;  that's  not  the  way  to  put  it. 

Theodore. 
Put  it  any  way  you  like.     When  was  it  ? 

Zoe. 
At  the — end  of  February,  I  think. 

Theodore. 
You   think  !    \A  pause.~\    What   made  him  go  out  to 
you  ? 

Zoe. 
He  knew  I  was  awfully  in  the  dumps 

Theodore. 
Did  he?    How  did  he  know  that? 

Zoe. 
He — guessed  I  must  be. 

Theodore. 
Guessed ! 

Zoe. 

Well,  I'd  seen  him  before  I  went  away.  I  was  dread- 
fully depressed,  Theo — dreadfully  desolee.  I  never  thought 
you'd  bang  out  of  the  house  as  you  did.  I  never  meant, 
for  a  single  moment 


MID-CHANNEL  173 

Theodore. 
Where  were  you  when  he  turned  up? 

Zoe. 

I — I'd  got  to  Florence.     I'd  been  to  Genoa  and  Pisa — 
I  was  drifting  about 

Theodore. 
Did  lie  dream  you  were  in  Florence? 

Zoe. 
Dream ? 

Theodore. 
He  must  have  dreamt  it. 

Zoe. 

Oh,  I    see  what   you're  driving  at.     He— he'd  had  a 
post-card  from  me 

Theodore. 
A  post-card  ! 

Zoe. 
\_Feebly.~\    I — I  don't  mean  one — you — you  silly  !     I — 
I    sent    him    a    picture   from   each   town — so    I    did   to 
Peter 

Theodore. 

Why  don't  you  admit  that  you  and  Ferris  were  corre- 
sponding? 

Zoe. 
I — I  am  admitting  it.     It's  nothing  to  admit. 

Theodore. 
Isn't  it  ?    \A  pause.~\    Well,  he  arrives  in  Florence ? 


174  31  ID-CHANNEL 

ZOE. 

Don't  worry  me  this  afternoon,  Theo 

Theodore. 
How  long  was  he  with  you  in  Florence? 

Zoe. 
I'm  seedy  ;  I  had  quite  a  temperature  yesterday.    Lena 


iicu  in  i^uMiieigu  — 
How  long  was  he  v 

Theodore. 
nth  you  in  Florence? 

He  wasn't  "with" 

Zoe. 
me. 

How  long  ? 

Theodore. 

A  week — eight  day 

Zoe. 

Same  hotel  ? 

Theodore. 

No,  no,  no ! 

Zoe. 

And  afterward 

Theodore. 

Zoe. 

I   wanted  to  do  a  little  tour  of  the  quiet  old  places — 
Perugia — Siena 

Theodore. 
So  did  he,  hey  ? 


JIID-CHANNEL  175 

ZOE. 

He  tacked  on.     I  saw  no  harm  in  it  at  the  time. 

Theodore. 
At  the  time ! 

Zoe. 
Nor  do  I  now. 

Theodore. 
It  was  coming  from  Perugia  you  fell  up  against  Low- 
enstein. 

.  ZjOE. 

If  you  were  a  man  you'd  thrash  that  beast. 

Theodore. 
Lowenstein  had  the  room  at  the  hotel  there— the  Bru- 
fani — that  Ferris  had  had. 

Zoe. 
\Protestingly.~\    Ah ! 

Theodore. 
In  the  same  corridor  as  yours  was. 

Zoe. 
It   was   stupid — stupid — stupid   of  Lenny   to  let  them 
carry  his  bag  up  to  the  Brufani.     It  was  all  done  before 
— before  it  dawned  on  him 

Theodore. 
Where  were  you  moving  on  to  when  Lowenstein  met 
you  at  Arezzo?    \A  pause. ~\    Hey? 

Zoe. 
[Passing  her  hand  across  her  brow,  weakly.~\    Let  me 
off  to-day,  Theo  ;  my  head's' going  like  a  clock.     \_Get- 


176  MID-CHANNEL 

ting  to  her  feet, ,]  Take  it  up  again  another  time.  [She 
goes  to  the  settee  on  the  right  ami  picks  up  her  bag  which 
she  has  lejt  there.  He  rises  and  follows  her,  so  that  when 
she  turns  they  come  face  to  J  ace.  .She  steadies  herself.]  Well, 
you  turn  it  over  in  your  mind  about  coming  back  to  me. 
1  don't  want  to  put  pressure  on  you;  only  I — I  under- 
stood from  Peter  you  were  feeling  kindly  toward  me 
again. 

TllEODOKE. 

[ Quietly.']    When  did  you  see  Ferris  last? 

Zoe..  • 

Oh,  drop  Ferris. 

Theodoke. 
When  ? 

ZOE. 

Oh — over  two   months  ago — at  the  end  of  the  little 

jaunt. 

Theodore. 

Not  since?  [She  looks  at  him  vacantly  and  shakes  her 
head]  That's  a  lie.  He  was  with  you  on  Monday  morn- 
ing at  half-past  eleven.     D'ye  deny  it? 

Zoe. 
You — you're  so  jealous,  one — one's  afraid 


Theodore. 
[  With  sudden,  fierce  earnestness . j    Zoe 

Zoe. 
[Helplessly.]    I'm  not  going  to  remain  here  to  be- 


MID-CHANNEL  177 

Theodore. 
Give  me  your  word  nothing  wrong's  occurred  between 
you  and   Ferris.    [A  pause. ~\    I  don't  ask  for  your  oath  ; 
I'll    be   satisfied    with  your  word.    [A  pause, ,]    Give  me 
your  word. 

[She  sits  upon  the  settee,  her  hands  lying  in  her 
lap. 

ZOE. 

[Staring  at  him.']  Theo — I've  forgiven  you  ;  forgive  me. 
[There    is   a   silence  and  then,  dumbfoundered,  he 
moves  to  the  chair  at  the  further  end  of  the  set- 
tee on  the  left  and  sits  there. 

Theodore. 
[After  a  while.]    Florence  ? 

Zoe. 
No.  Perugia— Siena [Brokenly f]  It  was  in  Flor- 
ence I  first  lost  my  senses.  I'd  been  pitying  you,  hating 
myself  for  the  way  I'd  served  you,  and  had  been  trying 
to  concoct  a  letter  to  you.  And  then  one  arrived  from 
him,  telling  me  you'd  taken  this  big  flat  and  were  having 
a  splendid  time.  It  made  me  furious  ;  and  when  he 
came  through  to  me,  I  was  half  beside  myself.  And  then 
he  planned  out  the  little  tour,  and  1  said  Yes  to  it. 
[Wringing  her  hands.]  Why!  Why  did  I  fall  in  with 
it!      I  shall  never  know  why — except  that  I  was  mad — 

blind  mad !    [Leaning  back,  her  eyes  closed.]    Get  me 

a  drop  o'  water. 

[He  rouses  himself  and  goes  to  the  table  on  the  left 
of  the  fireplace  and  half  fills  a  tumbler  with 
soda-water.  Then  he  brings  her  the  tumbler 
and  holds  it  out  to  her. 


Theodore. 


Here 


178  3UD-CHANNEL 

Zoe. 
[Opening  her  eyes  and  looking  up  at  him  beseechingly.'] 
Be — merciful  to  me. 

Theodore. 
[Peremptorily.]    Take  it. 

Zoe. 
[Barely  touching  the  glass.]    Don't— don't  be  hard  on 
me,  old  man. 

[He  thrusts  the  tumbler  into   her   hand  and  she 
drinks. 

Theodore. 
[Heavily.]    I— I  must  have  some  advice  about  this — 
some  advice. 

Zoe. 
Advice  ?  [He  goes  to  the  writing-table,  sits  there,  and 
places  the  telephone-receiver  to  his  ear.]  You — you  won't 
do  anything  to  disgrace  me  publicly,  will  you,  Theo? 
[He  taps  the  arm  of  the  instrument  impatiently '.]  You  won't 
do  anything  spiteful?  [He  rings  again.]  You  and  I  are 
both  sinners,  Theo  ;  we've  both  gone  a  mucker. 

Theodore. 
[Speaking  into  the  telephone^   London  Wall,  one,  three, 
double  five,  eight. 

Zoe. 
Tliat's  Peter.  He  won't  advise  you  to  do  anything 
spiteful.  [She  rises  painfully,  puts  the  tumbler  on  the  lop 
of  the  piano,  and  walks  about  the  room.]  What  can  you 
do?  You  can  do  nothing  to  hurt  me  ;  nor  I  you.  We're 
botli  sinners. 


MID-CHANNEL  179 

Theodore. 
[Into  the  telephone^    Hallo !    .    .    .    Are  you  Blundell, 
Slade  and   Mottram  ?    ...    Is  that  Mr.   Ewart?   .    .    . 
Mr.  Blundell.    .    .    .    Mr.  Mottram  not  back  yet,  I  sup- 
pose ?    .    .    . 

Zoe. 
[/;/  a  murmur.']    Both — both  gone  a  mucker. 

Theodore. 

[Into  the  telephone.]  .  .  .  When  he  comes  in,  tell 
him  I  want  to  see  him  at  once.  .  .  .  Cavendish  Square 
.   .   .    at  once.   .   .    .    [Replacing  the  receiver.]   Good-bye. 

Zoe. 

\_On  the  left.]  Peter — Peter  won't  let  you — be  too  rough 
on  me. 

Theodore. 

{Leaning  his  head  on  his  hands.]  Ho,  ho !  An  eye- 
opener  for  Peter!  But  he's  been  a  first-rate  prophet  all 
the  same.  [/;/  a  muffled  voice.]  Yes,  Peter's  been  right 
all  along  the  line,  with  his  precious  mid-Channel ! 

Zoe. 

[Looking  at  him  and  speaking  in  low,  measured  tones.] 

Theo [He  makes  no  response.]    Theo [Coming 

to  him  slowly.]  I — I  was  thinking  it  over — beating  it  all 
out — driving  into  the  city  and  back  again.  Our  marriage 
was  doomed  long,  long  before  we  reached  mid-Channel. 

Theodore. 
[Absently,  not  stirring.]    Oh  ? 

Zoe. 
It  was  doomed  nearly  fourteen  years  ago. 


180  MID-CHANNEL 

Theodore. 
[As  before.]   Oh? 

ZOE. 

From  the  very  beginning. 

Theodore. 
[Raising  his  head.']    What  d'ye ? 

Zoe. 

It  was  doomed  from  the  moment  we  agreed  that  we'd 
never  be  encumbered  in  our  career  with  any — brats  of 
children.  \_He  partly  turns  in  his  chair,  to  listen  to  her.] 
I  want  you  to  remember  that  bargain,  in  judging  me  ; 
and  1  want  you  to  tell  Peter  of  it. 

Theodore. 
Yes,  it  suits  you  to  rake  that  up  now . 

Zoe. 

[Pressing  her  fingers  to  her  temples^]  If  there  had  been 
"  brats  of  children"  at  home,  it  would  have  made  a  dif- 
ferent woman  of  me,  Theo  ;  such  a  different  woman  of 
me — and  a  different  man  of  you.  But,  no  ;  everything 
in  the  earlier  years  of  our  marriage  was  sacrificed  to  coin- 
ing money — to  shoving  our  way  through  the  crowd — to 
"  getting  on  "  ;  everything  was  sacrificed  to  that. 

Theodore. 
{Angrily.]    Oh ! 

Zoe. 

And  then,  when  we  had  succeeded — when  we  had  got 
on — we  had  commenced  to  draw  apart  from  each  other  ; 
and  there  was  the  great,  showy,  empty  house  at  Lancaster 
Gate  for  me  to  fret  and  pine  in.  [He  waves  his  arm  scorn- 
fully.]  Oh,  yes,  we  were  happy  in  those  climbing  days 


MID-CHANNEL  181 

greedily,  feverishly  happy  ;  but  we  didn't  look  to  the 

time  when  we  should  need  another  interest  in  life  to  bind 
us  together — the  time  when  we'd  got  on  in  years  as  well 
as  in  position.  [Theodore  starts  up.]  Ah,  Theo,  I  be- 
lieve we  should  have  crossed  that  Ridge  safely  enough 
[laying  her  hands  upon  his  breast]  but  for  our  cursed, 
cursed  selfishness ! 

Theodore. 
[Shaking  himself  free.']  Well,  there's  not  the  slightest 
use  in  talking  about  what  might,  or  might  not,  have  been. 
[Passing  her  and  pacing  the  room.]  One  thing  is  abso- 
lutely certain— it's  impossible  for  us  ever  to  live  under 
the  same  roof  again  under  any  conditions.  That's  out  o' 
the  question  ;  I  couldn't  stoop  to  that. 

Zoe. 
[Leaning  against  the  chair  at  the  writing-table]    No, 
you  draw  the  line  at  stooping  to  Mrs.  Annerly. 

Theodore. 
Oh,  don't  keep  on  harping  on  that  string.     The  cases 
are  as  far  apart  as  the  poles. 

Zoe. 

[Faintly.]    Ha,  ha  ! 

Theodore. 
[Halting  in  the  middle  of  the  room  a?id  drumming  upon 
his  brow  with  his  fingers.]  Of  course,  we  can  make  our 
separation  a  legal  one  ;  but  that  wouldn't  give  us  release. 
And  as  long  as  we're  tied  to  one  another — [abruptly, 
looking  at  her] .    Zoe 

Zoe. 
[Meekly.]    Eh? 


182  MID-CHANNEL 

Theodore. 

If  I  allowed  you  to  divorce  me — made  it  easy  for  you 
— would  Ferris — would  that  scoundrel  marry  you? 

Zoe. 
[  Turning  to  kirn,  blankly.']    M-marry  me  ? 

Theodore. 
Because — if  it  'ud  save  you  from  going  utterly  to  the 
bad 

Zoe. 
[Advancing  a  step  or  two.']    No,  no  ;   I  wouldn't — I 
wouldn't  marry  Lenny. 

Theodore. 
[After  a  moment '  s pause,  sharply.]   You  wouldn't? 

Zoe. 
No — no 

Theodore. 
{Coming  close  to  her.]    Why    not?     [She  shrugs  her 
shoulders'  confusedly.]    Why  not  ? 

[She    wavers,   then  grasps  his  arm.     Again   he 
shakes  her  off. 

Zoe. 
[Appealing.]   Oh,  Theo,  stick  to  me.     Don't  throw 
me  over.     Wait— wait  for  Peter.     Theo,  I've  never  ceased 
to  be  fond  of  you 

Theodore. 
Faugh  ! 


MID-CHANNEL  183 

ZOE. 

Not  at  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  No,  nor  you  of  me  ; 
there's  the  tragedy  of  it.  Peter  says  the  same.  [Seizing 
his  hand.']   Take  time  ;  don't  decide  to-day 

Theodore. 
[Freeing   his    hand  and  looking  at    her   piercingly.] 
When  did  you  see  him  last? 

Zoe. 
H-him? 

Theodore. 
Ferris. 

Zoe. 
This— this  morning. 

Theodore. 
This  morning ! 

Zoe. 
1— I  confess— this  morning.     I— I  sent  him  away. 

Theodore. 
Sent  him — away? 

Zoe. 
[Nodding.]   Yes — yes 

Theodore. 
[Slowly.]   And  so  you  rush  off  to  me— straight  from  the 
young  gentleman 

Zoe. 

W-well  ? 


184  MID-CHANNEL 

Theodore. 
[Suddenly.']    Why,  damn  you,  you've  quarreled! 

Zoe. 
No 

Theodore. 
He's  chucked  you ! 

Zoe. 
No 

Theodore. 
Had  enough  of  you  ! 

Zoe. 
\_Her  eyes  biasing.']    That's  not  true  ! 

Theodore. 
Ho,  ho  !     You  bring  me  his  cast-off  trash,  do  you * 

Zoe. 
It's  a  lie  ! 

Theodore. 
Mr.  Lenny  Ferris's  leavings  ! 

Zoe. 
It's  a  lie  !     He'd  give  his  soul  to  make  me  his  wife. 

Theodore. 
Will  he  tell  me  that  ? 

Zoe. 
Tell  you  I 


MID-CHANNEL  185 

Theodore. 

[Between  his  teeth.']  If  he  doesn't,  I'll  break  every  bone 
in  his  carcase. 

Zoe. 
[  Throwing  her  head  up  defiantly.]    Of  course  he'd  tell 
vou. 

Theodore. 

[Walking  away  to  the  fireplace.]  He  shall  have  a 
chance  of  doing  it. 

Zoe. 
[Making  for  the  door,  wildly.]    The  sooner  the  better ! 

Theodore. 
[Looking  at  his  watch.]    If  Peter  were  here 

Zoe. 

[Behind  the  settee  on  the  left,  turning  to  Theodore.] 
Mind  !  I've  your  bond  !  If  Lenny  promises  to  marry 
me,  you'll  let  me  free  myself  from  you  ? 

Theodore. 
I've  said  so. 

Zoe. 

[Missing  her  bag,  which  is  again  lying  upon  the  settee  on 

the  left,  and  pointing  to  it.]    Please 

[He  picks  up  the  bag,  and  is  about  to  take  it  to  her, 
when  he  remembers  that  he  has  the  latch-key  in 
his  pocket.  He  produces  the  key  and  drops  it 
into  the  bag. 

Theodore. 

[As  he  does  so.]  You'll  want  this  for  your  new  hus- 
band. 


186  MID-CHANNEL 

ZOE. 

Thank  God,  I've  done  with  the  old  one  !  [He  tossesthe 
bag  to  her  in  a  fury  and  she  catches  it.~\  Ha,  ha  !  [At  the 
door.~\   Ta,  ta  !  [She  disappears . 

Theodore. 

[Flourishing  his  hands.']    Oh ! 

[Going  to  the  piano,  he  takes  the  decanter  of  brandy 
and  a  glass  from  the  tray  and  Jills  the  glass  to 
the  brim. 


END  OF   THE   THIRD  ACT 


THE  FOURTH  ACT 

The  scene  is  a  pretty,  irregularly-shaped  room,  simply  but 
tastefully  furnished.  At  the  back,  facing  the  spec- 
tator, are  two  double-windows  opening  to  the  floor. 
These  windows  give  on  to  a  balcony  which  appears  to 
continue  its  course  outside  the  adjoining  rooms  both  on 
the  right  and  left.  Beyond  the  balcony  there  is  an 
open  space  and,  in  the  distance,  a  view  of  the  upper 
part  of  the  Albert  Hall  and  of  other  lofty  buildings. 
On  the  left  is  the  fireplace — its  grate  empty,  save  for  a 
few  pots  of  flowers — and,  nearer  the  spectator,  there  is 
a  door  opening  from  a  corridor.  Opposite  this  door  is  a 
door  of  like  dimensions,  admitting  to  a  bedroom. 

On  either  side  of  the  fireplace  and  of  the  left-hand  win- 
dow there  is  an  armchair  ;  facing  the  fireplace  there  is 
a  settee  ;  and  at  the  back  of  the  settee  are  a  small  writing- 
table  and  writing-chair.  A  leathern  tub  for  waste- 
paper  stands  beside  the  writing-table. 

On  the  right  of  the  room  is  a  round  table  upon  which  tea 
is  laid  for  three  persons.  Two  chairs — one  on  the  left, 
another  at  the  further  side — and  a  settee  on  the  right 
are  drawn  up  close  to  this  table.  Elsewhere  are  a  book- 
case, a  smoking-cabinet,  and  some  odds  and  ends  of  fur- 
niture— the  whole  being  characteristic  of  a  room  in  a 
small  fiat  occupied  by  a  well-to-do,  but  not  wealthy, 
young  man. 

Both  the  windows  are  open,  and  the  glare  of  the  afternoon 
sun  is  on  the  balcony  and  the  opposite  buildings. 

187 


188  MID  CHANNEL 

[Mrs.  Pierpoint,  Ethel,  and  Leonard — the 
ladies  in  their  hats  and  gaily  dressed — are 
seated  at  the  round  table. 

Leonard. 

[//*  the  chair  on  the  left  of  the  table — "handing  a  dish  of 
cakes  to  Mrs.  Pierpoint.]  Do  try  one  of  these  little 
cakes. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[In  the  chair  at  the  further  side  of  the  table."]    I  couldn't. 

Leonard. 
1  bought  them  and  carried  'em  home  myself. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
You  really  must  excuse  me. 

Leonard. 

[Pushing  the  dish  toward  Ethel,  who  is  on  the  settee 
facing  him.]    Buck  up,  Ethel. 

Ethel. 
Good-bye    to   my  dinner,  then.     [Taking  a  cake  and 
biting  it  as  she  speaks.]    May  I,  mother? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[Cheerfully.]    Now,  isn't  that  the  modern  young  lady 
exactly!     May  I,  mother!     And  the  cake  is  half  eaten 
befoie  the  poor  mother  can  even  nod  her  head. 

Ethel. 
[Laughing.]    Ha,  ha  ! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
May  I  go  out  for  a  walk,  mother ;  and  the  front  door 
bangs  on  the  very  words !     May  I  do  this  ;    may  I  do 


MID-CHANNEL  18y 

that !     And  a  nice  life  the  mother  leads  if  she  dares  to 
say  No. 

Ethel. 
This  sounds  suspiciously  like  a  sermon.    [To  Leonard.] 
Lenny,  sit  up  straight  and  be  preached  to.    [Pushing  her 
cup  to  Mrs.  Pierpoint  who  has  the  tea-tray  before  her. ~\ 
Another  cup  of  tea,  your  reverence. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Ethel!     How — how  irreligious  !    [Pouring  out  tea.]    Ah, 
but  it's  true,  every  syllable  of  it.      And  in  nothing  is  this 
spirit  of — what  shall  I  describe  it  as? 

Ethel. 
Go-as-you-pleasedness. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

[Giving  Ethel  her  tea.]  In  nothing  is  this  wilful, 
thoughtless  spirit  more  plainly  shown  than  in  the  way 
love-affairs  are  conducted  at  the  present  day. 

Ethel. 
[Whistling  slyly.]    Phew  ! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[To  Leonard.]    More  tea,  Leonard  ? 

Leonard. 

No,  thanks. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[Resignedly.]    I  suppose  1  must  call  you  Leonard  now? 

Ethel. 
[Into  her  teacup^]    What's  the  matter  with  "  Lenny  "  ? 


190  MID-CHANNEL 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  don't  think  that  it  was  the 
fashion  in  my  youth  for  a  young  lady  suddenly  to  appear 
before  her  mother  and  to  say,  without  a  note  of  warning, 
"  Mr.  So-and-so  is  in  the  drawing-room  and  we  wish  to 
be  engaged."  Take  the  case  of  Ethel's  papa — there's  a 
case  in  point 


Leonard. 

I  certainly  intended  to  speak  to  you  first,  Mrs.  Pier- 
point. 

Ethel. 

[7o  Leonard.]    You  fibber  ! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Ethel ! 

Leonard. 
Well,  I — what  I  mean  is 

Ethel. 

If  you  had  done  so,  I'd  never  have  looked  at  you 
again.  Surely,  if  there  is  one  thing  which  is  a  girl's  own 
particular  business,  it  is  settling  preliminaries  with  her 
best  young  man. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
My  dear  ! 

Ethel. 

{Jumping  up.~\  Anyhow,  mother,  if  you  wanted  to  play 
the  dragon,  you  shouldn't  have  been  up-stairs,  sleeping 
off  the  effects  of  an  exceedingly  heavy  lunch,  when  Lenny 
arrived  this  afternoon. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

Fiddle,  heavy  lunch !  A  morsel  of  minced 
chicken ! 


MID-CHANNEL  191 

Ethel. 
Ha,  ha!    [Betiding  over  Mrs.   Pierpoint.]    And  you 
don't  mind,  do  you— not  actually — [kissing  Mrs.  Pier- 
point]  as  long  as ? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
As  long  as  what  ? 

Ethel. 
As  long  as— Lenny's  contented  ? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

[Shaking  herself.']    Oh,  go  away. 

[Laughingly,  Ethel  wanders  about  inspecting  the 
various  objects  in  the  room. 

Leonard. 
[To  Mrs.  Pierpoint,  producing  his  cigarette-case.]    Do 
you  object? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Not  in   the   least.     Ethel's   papa  used  to  indulge,  in 
moderation. 

Leonard. 
[  To  Ethel,  over  his  shoulder.]    Cigarette,  Ethel  ? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Ethel,  I  forbid  it. 

Ethel. 
[Putting  on  her  gloves.]    I   would,  but  it  makes  me 
swiinmy. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[To  Ethel.]    How  do  you  know? 


192  MID-CHA  NNEL 

Ethel. 
I've  smoked  with  Zoe  Blundell. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
This  is  news  to  me. 

Ethel. 
Zoe  smokes  like  a  chimney. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[  To  Leonard.]    By-the-bye,  she's  in  London  again. 

Leonard. 
[Uncomfortably. ~\    Yes — yes. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Ethel  called  on  her  this  morning  at  Lancaster  Gate. 

Leonard. 
Did  she  ? 

Ethel. 
[To  Leonard.]    I  told  yon,  Len. 

Leonard. 
Ah,  yes. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[To  Leonard.]    Have  yon  seen  her?     I  presume  not. 

Leonard. 

Er — for  a  few  minutes.  I  was  in  the  neighborhood  on 
— on  Monday,  and  I  noticed  the  blinds  were  up,  and  I — 
I  just  rang  the  bell  to — to  inquire. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[Elevating  her  eyebrows 7\    She  received  you? 


MID-  CM  A  NNEL  1 93 

Leonard. 
She — she  happened  to  be  in  the  hall. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
I  was  going  to  say — a  woman  in  her  peculiar  position 
ought  hardly 

Leonard. 
No,  of  course. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Looks  ill,  I  understand  ? 

Ethel. 

Frightfully. 

Leonard. 
Does  she  ? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
I  am  afraid — I  am  very  much  afraid — that  dear  Mrs. 
Blundell  was  not  entirely  free  from  blame  in  her  treat- 
ment of  that  big,  rough  husband  of  hers. 

Ethel. 
[At  the  left-hand  window.']    Rubbish,  mother  ! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Ethel,  you  are  too  disrespectful. 

Ethel. 
Sorry. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

At  the  same  time,  she  is  an  exceedingly  attractive  per- 
son— a  trifle  vulgar,  poor  soul,  occasionally 


194  MID-CHANNEL 

Ethel. 
[Hotly.']    Mother! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[To  Leonard.]    But  good-natured  people  frequently 
are  vulgar — aren't  they  ? 

Ethel. 
[Going  on  to  the  balcony.]    Oh ! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

[To  Leonard.]    You  were  quite  a  friend  of  hers  before 
the  sad  split,  weren't  you — quite  a  friend  ? 

Leonard. 
Yes,  I — I  always  found  her  a  very  decent  sort. 

Ethel. 

[Her  hands  upon  the  rail  of  the  balustrade,  calling.] 
Mother,  do  come  and  look  at  the  tiny  men  and  women. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

Men   and  women ?    [Mrs.  Pierpoint  rises  and 

goes  to  the  window,  whereupon  Leonard  jumps  up  as  if 
relieved  by  the  interruption.]  You're  soiling  your  gloves, 
Ethel. 

Ethel. 
Look  down  there.     What  tots  ! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

[Drawing  back  from  the  window.']    Oh,  my  dear,  I 
can't 

Ethel. 
Do,  mother. 


MID-CHANNEL  195 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
You  know  I  don't  care  for  heights. 

Ethel. 

I'll  steady  you.    [Mrs.  Pierpoint  timidly  ventures  on 
to  the  balcony.     Ethel  takes  her  arm.']   There's  been  a 

concert — or  a  meeting.    \_Calling.~\    Lenny 

[Leonard  has  walked  away  to  the  writing-table 
gloomily.  He  is  about  to  join  the  ladies  on  the 
balcony  when  the  door  on  the  left  opens  and 
RiDEOUT,  his  servant,  appears. 

Leonard. 

[To  Rideout.]    Eh  ? 

[After  glancing  discreetly  in  the  direction  of  the 
ladies  on  the  balcony,  Rideout  produces  a  visit- 
ing-card from  behind  his  back.  Leonard  goes 
to  him  and  takes  the  card,  and  looks  at  it  in 
astonishment. 

Rideout. 
[Quietly.']    There's  some  writing  on  it,  sir. 

Leonard. 
I  see.    [In  a  low  voice.]    Where  is  she  ? 

Rideout. 
In  my  room,  sir.     I  said  you  were  engaged. 

Leonard. 
[Uneasily.]    You  didn't  tell  her  who's  here. 

Rideout. 
No,  sir  ;  merely  some  friends  to  tea. 

Leonard. 

All  right.     I  sha'n't  be  very  long.    [Rideout  isgoing. ~\ 
Tss  —  ! 


196  MID-CHANNEL 

RlDEOUT. 

Sapping.']   Yessir  ? 

Leonakd. 
Keep  your  door  shut. 

RlDEOUT. 

Yessir. 

[Rideout  withdraws.  Leonard  crams  the  card 
into  his  waistcoat-pocket  and  is  again  about  to 
join  the  ladies  when  Mrs.  Pier  point  comes 
back  into  the  room. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
\_To  Leonard.]   Thank  you  for  showing  us  your  charm- 
ing little  nest,     yuite— quite  delightful ! 

Leonard. 

{Standing  by  the  round  table. ]  Oh,  for  bachelor  quar- 
ters  

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

{In  the  middle  of  the  room.']  There  !  I  declare  I  often 
wonder  what  there  is  to  tempt  a  bachelor  to  marry  in 
these  days. 

Leonard. 
You're  not  a  bachelor,  Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

No;  that's  true.  That's  perfectly  true.  But  I've  a 
distinct  remembrance  of  the  rooms  Ethel's  papa  lived  in 
when  he  was  a  bachelor.  [Ethel  returns  and  goes  to  the 
fireplace.]  They  were  in  Keppel  Street,  and  vastly  dif- 
ferent from  these.  {Turning  to  Ethel.]  Have  I  ever 
told  you  that  poor  papa  lived  in  Keppel  Street? 


MID-CHANNEL  197 

Ethel. 
[Demurely.]   Yes,  mother. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[To  Ethel.]    And  now,  my  dear,  as  we  have  to  dine 
at  half-past  seven — [to  Leonard]  what  time  does  Louise 
begin? 

Leonard. 
Oh,  if  we  get  there  at  nine 


Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

So  kind  of  you  to  take  us — and  as  Ethel  must  lie  down 
on  her  bed  for  an  hour  if  we  want  her  to  look  her  best 
— [pointing  to  the  tea-table]  may  I  trouble  you — my 
fan  ?  ■ 


[Leonard  searches  for  Mrs.   Pierpoint' s  fan 
among  the  tea  things. 

Ethel. 

[Kneeling  upon  the  settee  on  the  left,  her  elbows  on  the 
back  of  it,  gazing  into  space.]    Mother 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Eh?    [Receiving  her  fan  from  Leonard.]    Thank  you. 

Ethel. 
[Slowly.]     Mother — this    is   going    to    be    an   awfully 
happy  night. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
I'm  sure  I  hope  so,  my  darling.     It  won't  be  my  fault 
if  it  isn't — {tapping  Leonard's  shoulder  with  her  fan] 
nor  Leonard's. 

Ethel. 
Ah,  no  ;  I  mean  the  night  of  one's  life  perhaps. 


198  MID-CHANNEL 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Oh,  I  trust  we  shall  have  many,  many 


Leonard. 
Rather ! 

Ethel. 

[Raising  herself  and  gripping  the  back  of  the  settee."] 
No,  no  ;  you  don't  understand,  you  gabies.  In  every- 
body's life  there's  one  especial  moment 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Moment? 

Ethel. 

Hour — day — night;  when  all  the  world  seems  yours — 
as  if  it  had  been  made  for  you,  and  when  you  can't  help 
pitying  other  people — they  seem  so  ordinary  and  insig- 
nificant.    Well,  I  believe  this  is  to  be  my  evening. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

One  would  imagine  /  had  never  given  you  any  pleas- 
ure, to  hear  you  talk. 

Ethel. 

[Rising.]  I  say,  mother,  don't  make  me  lie  down,  and 
lose  consciousness,  when  I  get  home.  [Going  to  Mrs. 
Pierpoint     with     extended     arms.']     Ah,      ha !      You 

duck ! 

[In  advancing  to  Mrs.  Pierpoint,  Ethel  knocks 
over  the  waste-paper  tub  with  her  skirt  and  its 
contents  are  scattered  on  the  floor. 

Ethel. 

[Going  down  on  her  knees  and  replacing  the  litter.] 
Sorry. 


MID-CHANNEL  199 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[To  Ethel.]    You'll  crease  your  skirt,  Ethel. 

Leonard. 
[Going  to  Ethel.]    Never  mind  that. 

Ethel. 
Oh,  but  if  I  do  anything  clumsy  at  home !    [Com- 
ing  upon   some  fragments    of  a  photograph. ]    Oh ! 

[  frying  to  fit  the  pieces  together.']    Zoe  ! 

Leonard. 
Yes,  I— I 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[  Who  has  moved  to  the  fireplace.]    Pray  get  off  the  floor, 
child. 

Ethel. 
[Finding  more  pieces.]    Why,  you've  been  tearing  up 
Zoe's  photos. 

Leonard. 
They're  old  things. 

Ethel. 
That  they're  not.      This  one  isn't,  at  all  events.    [Ex- 
amining one  of  the  scraps  closely.]    "  — Firenze." 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Ethel,  we  must  be  going. 

Leonard. 

[Almost  roughly.]    Leave  them  alone,  Ethel. 

[A   little  startled  by  his  tone,  she  drops  the  pieces 
into  the  basket  and  he  assists  her  to  rise. 


200  MID-CHANNEL 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

[Opening  the  door  on  tJie  left.]    Come  along  at  once,  I 
insist. 

[Mrs.  Pierpoint  goes  out.  Ethel  is  following 
her  mother  when  she  turns  to  Leonard  who  is 
behind  her. 

Ethel. 

[To  Leonard,   with   a   smile.'}   Sony    I  contradicted 
you. 

[  They  kiss  hurriedly  and  Ethel  runs  after  her 
mother.  LEONARD  follows  and  closes  the  door. 
After  a  little  wind,  the  door  is  reopened,  and 
Rideout  enters  with  Zoe.  Zoe  is  dressed  as 
when  last  seen. 

Rideout. 

[To  Zoe,  as  she  passes  him.']    Mr.   Ferris  has  gone  to 
the  lift,  ma'am.     He  won't  be  a  minute. 

Zoe. 

[Going  to  the  left-hand  window,  languidly:}    All  right. 

Rideout. 

[At  the  round  table,  putting  the  tea-things  together  upon 
the  tray.]    Shall  I  make  you'some  tea,  ma'am  ? 

Zoe. 
[Looking  out  of  the  window,  speaking  in  a  dull  voice.] 
No ;  I've   had   tea,    in   a   tea-shop.     [Turning.]    Ride- 
out  

Rideout. 
Yes,  ma'am  ? 

Zoe. 

I  should  like  to  tidy  myself,  if  I  may  ;  I've  been  walk- 
ing about. 


MID-CHANNEL  201 

RlDEOUT. 

\  Going  io  the  door  on  the  right  and  opening  it.]  Cert'  nly, 
ma'am.  [As  Zoe  approaches.]  The  hot  water  flows  cold 
for  a  few  seconds,  ma'am. 

Zoe. 
Is  there  any  scent  ? 

RlDEOUT. 

There's   some   eau-de-cologne    on  the  dressing-table, 

ma'am. 

[She  disappears  <*w</Rideout  closes  the  door  and 
continues  his  preparations  for  removing  the  tea- 
things.     Leonard  returns. 

RlDEOUT. 

XAnswering  a   look  of  inquiry  from  Leonard.]    Mrs. 
Blundell's  tidying  herself,  sir. 

Leonard. 
Oh,  yes.    [Moving  about  the  room,  irritably."]   Won't  she 
have  some  tea? 

RlDEOUT. 

I  did  ask  her,  sir.     She's  had  it. 

Leonard. 
[Halting.]   Did  Mrs.  Blundell— say  anything,  Rideout? 

RlDEOUT. 

[Folding  the  table-cloth.]  Only  that  she  wanted  to  see 
you  just  for  ten  minutes,  sir,  and  that  she  thought  she'd 
wait.  And  then  she  wrote  on  her  card  and  told  me  to 
slip  it  into  your  hand  if  I  got  the  opportunity. 

Leonard. 
[Resuming  his  walk.]    Yes,  yes. 


202  MID-CHANNEL 

RlDEOUT. 

[After  a  pause.~\    What  time'll  you  dress,  sir? 

Leonard. 
Quarter  to  seven.     I  have  to  dine  at  half-past. 

RlDEOUT. 

Which  suit'll  you  wear,  sir? 

Leonard. 
[Considering. ~\    Er — pink  lining. 

RlDEOUT. 

Theatre,  sir? 

Leonard. 

Opera.     Two  pairs  o'  gloves.    [Rideout  goes  toward 
the  door  on  the  left,  carrying  the  tea-tray  7\    Tss ! 

RlDEOUT. 

Yessir  ? 


Leonard. 
There's  no  necessity  to  put  out  my  clothes  yet  a  while. 

RlDEOUT. 

[Placing  the  tray  upon  a  piece  of  furniture  so  that  he 
can  open  the  door.~\    No,  sir. 

Leonard. 
I'll  ring  when  you  can  come  through. 

RlDEOUT. 

[Opening  the  door.']    Yessir. 

Leonard. 
And  I'm  not  at  home  to  anybody  else. 


MID-CHANNEL  203 

RiDEOUT. 
[Taking  tip  the  tray.']    No,  sir.    [As  the  man  is  leaving 
the  room,  Leonard  comes  to  the  door  to  close  it.']    Thank 
you  very  much,  sir. 

[Rideout  goes  out  and  Leonard  shuts  the  door. 
As  he  turns  from  the  door,  his  eyes  fall  upon 
the  waste-paper  tub.     He  snatches  it  up  angrily. 

Leonard. 
[Reopening  the  door  and  calling.]    Rideout 

Rideout. 
[Out  of  sight.]    Yessir? 

[Rideout  presents  himself  at  the  door  without 
the  tray. 

Leonard. 

[Shaking  up  the  contents  of  the  tub  and  then  giving  it  to 
Rideout.]    Burn  this  waste-paper. 

Rideout. 
Yessir. 

[Rideout  closes  the  door  and  Leonard  is  again 
walking  about  the  room  when  Zoe,  carrying 
her  hat,  gloves,  and  bag,  appears  on  the  bal- 
cony outside  the  right-hand  window.  She  en- 
ters and  they  look  at  one  another  for  a  moment 
without  speaking. 


Leonard. 

Hallo,  Zo ! 

Zoe. 

Hallo,  Len  ! 

Leonard. 

This  is  a  surprise. 

204  MID-  CHA  NNEL 

Zoe. 
[Putting  her  hat,  gloves,  and  bag  upon  the  round  table 
— nervously.]    Is  it  ? 

Leonard. 
I    thought   you'd  dropped  my  acquaintance  for  good 
and  all. 

Zoe. 
N — no,  Len.     Why  should  you  think  that? 

Leonard. 
Ha  !     Well,  I  bear  the  marks  of  the  point  of  your  shoe 
somewhere  about  me. 

Zoe. 

Oli,  you — you  mustn't  take  me  too  seriously  when 
I'm  in  one  of  my  vile  tempers.  \A  pause.']  I — I'm  not — 
keeping  you ? 

Leonard. 
No,  no. 

Zoe. 
[  Turning  the  chair  on  the  left  of  the  round  table  so  that 
it  faces  the  writing-table.']    May  I  sit  down? 

Leonard. 
Do. 

Zoe. 
I  was  here  three-quarters  of  an  hour  ago,  but  the  porter 
said  you  were  out;  so  I  went  and  got  some  tea.    {Sitting.'] 
You've  been  entertaining,  according  to  Rideont. 

Leonard. 

[Turning  the  chair  at  the  writing-table  and  sitting  facing 
her.]    A  couple  o'  people  turned  up — old  friends 


MID-CHANNEL  205 

ZOE. 

You  are  a  gay  dog.    [Suddenly,  staring  at  the  writing- 
table.']    Why — where — where  am  It 

Leonard. 
You? 

ZOE. 

You   always  have  a  photograph  of  me,  standing  on 
your  writing-table. 

Leonard. 
O— oh,  it's 

Zoe. 
[Remembering.]    And  there  isn't  one  now — [glancing 
at  the  door  on  t/ie  right]  in  your ! 

Leonard. 

The  frames  had  got  beastly  shabby.     Rideout's  taken 
'em  to  be  done  up. 

Zoe. 
[Flutteringly.]    Honor?    [A pause.]    Honor? 

Leonard. 
If — if  I  say  so 

Zoe. 

I  beg  your  pardon.     No,  you  wouldn't  out  my  photos 
because  of  a — because  of  a  little  tiff,  would  you  ? 

Leonard. 
L— likely  ! 


206  MID-CHANNEL 

ZOE. 

[Rising  and  going  to  him.]  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't, 
dear  boy  ;  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't.  [Again  there  is  a 
pause,  during  which  she  passes  her  hand  over  his  shoulder 
caressingly.']    Len 

Leonard. 
Eh? 

ZOE. 

[Standing  behind  him.']  After  that — stupid  fall-out  of 
ours  this  morning — what  d'ye  think  I  did? 

Leonard. 
Did? 

Zoe. 

Ha,  ha  !  I — I  took  it  into  my  head  to — to  pay  Theo- 
dore a  visit. 

Leonard. 
Pay  him  a  visit ! 

Zoe. 
It — it  was  one  of  my  silly  impulses — I  was  so  upset  at 
having  offended  you 

Leonard. 
Did  you  see  him  ? 

Zoe. 
Y — yes. 

Leonard. 
And  what  had  he  to  say  for  himself? 

Zoe. 
Oh,  I — I  made  such  a  mash  of  it,  Len. 


MID-CHANNEL  207 

Leonard. 


Mash ? 

Zoe. 
Yes,  I — I  let  him  worm  it  out  of  me. 

Leonard. 
Worm  it  out  of  you  ? 

Zoe. 
Worm  it — all  out 

Leonard. 
Worm  what  out  of  you  ? 

Zoe. 

[Faintly.']    P-Perugia 

[  There  is  a  silence,  and  then  LEONARD  rises  with 
an  angry  look. 

Zoe. 

[Holding  the  lapels  of  his  coat.]  Don't  be  savage  with 
me,  Len.  It  wasn't  altogether  my  fault.  He  had  heard 
of  it  from  Claud  Lowenstein.  And  it's  of  no  consequence  ; 
none  whatever.  It's  just  as  you  said  this  morning — he  is 
ready  to  make  matters  smooth  for  us. 

Leonard. 
[Blankly.]   Smooth — for  us  ! 

Zoe. 
Yes,    to    let   me  divorce   him.     He's  promised — he's 
promised  to  do  so,  if  you'll — only 

Leonard. 
[His  jaw  dropp ing . ]    If  / ? 


Leonard. 

i 


208  MID-CHANNEL 

Zoe. 

If  you'll  give  him  your  word  that  you'll  do  the  right 
thing  by  me. 

The  right  thing  - 

Zoe. 

Many  me.  \_A  pause']  1  —  I  suppose  he — I  suppose 
he'll  demand  to  see  you.  Or  perhaps  he'll  make  Peter 
Mottram  a  go-between. 

[ Again  there  is  a  silence,  and  then  he  walks  away 
from  her.     She  follows  him  with  her  eyes. 

Leonard. 

[  Thickly.']  But  you — you  wished  me  good-bye  this 
morning — finished  with  me. 

Zoe. 

[Clenching  her  hands.]  I  know — I  know  !  [Coming  to 
him.]  But  he — he  insulted  me,  Len — stung  me.  He  flung 
it  in  my  face  that  you — that  you'd  chucked  me  ;  that  I 
was  your  cast-off,  your  leavings.  I  couldn't  bear  it  from 
him  ;  and  I — I  told  him  that  you  were  all  eagerness  to 
make  me  your  wife.  [A  pause.]  Well  !  And  so  you 
were — this  morning  ! 

[//?  sits  in  the  chair  on  the  left  of  the  round  table, 
his  elbows  on  his  knees,  holding  his  head. 

Leonard. 

Zoe 

Zoe. 
W-what  ? 

Leonard. 

These  people  I've  had  to  tea  this  afternoon — ladies — 
two  ladies 


MIDCHANNEL  209 

ZOE. 
Yes? 

Leonard. 
Mrs.  Pierpoint  was  one  of  them — and — and 

Zoe. 
Mrs.  Pierpoint ? 

Leonard. 
[Raising  his  head  and  looking  at  her.}   The  other  was 
—Ethel. 

Zoe. 

Eth-el ! 

Leonard. 
[In  a  low  voice.'}    You — you  made  me  do  it. 

Zoe. 

[Dazed.']     I — I    made    you !     [Drawing  a   deep 

breath.}  Oh-h-h  !  [She  turns  from  kim  slowly,  and  seats 
herself  in  the  chair  at  the  writing-table .]  I — I'd  forgotten 
Ethel. 

Leonard. 

Yes,  you  persuaded  me  to  do  it.    [A  pause.}    Zo,  you 
egged  me  on  to  do  it. 

Zoe. 
[Quietly.}    You — you  didn't  lose  much  time,  did  you? 

Leonard. 
I — I  was  furious  when  I  left  you — furious. 

Zoe. 

[With  an   attempt  at  a  smile.}    Why,  you — you  must 
have  bolted  straight  off  to  her. 


210  MID-CHANNEL 

Leonard. 
I — I  went  to  the  club  and  had  some  food  ;  and  then  I 
came  back  here  and  changed — and 

Zoe. 
Got  rid  of  those  photos  ! 

Leonard. 
I  was  furious — furious. 

Zoe. 

And  then  you — you  bustled  off  to  Sloane  Street !  [He 
rises  and  paces  the  room.  After  a  while  she  pulls  herself 
together.]    Oh,  well,  it — it  can't  be  helped,  old  boy. 

Leonard. 
[Agitatedly."]    It  must  be  helped  ;  it  must  be  helped.     I 
must  get  out  of  it ;  1   must  get  out  of  it.    Somehow  or 
other,  I  must  get  out  of  it. 

Zoe. 

Get  out  of  it? 

Leonard. 
The — the  Pierpoints ! 

Zoe. 
Oh,  don't  talk  such  utter  rubbish  ;  I'd  kill  myself 
sooner.  [He  throws  himself  into  the  chair  on  the  right  of 
the  left-hand  window.]  No,  I'm  a  rotter,  Len,  but  I'm 
not  as  low  as  that.  Oh,  no,  I'm  not  as  low  as  all  that. 
[She  rises  and  goes  slowly  to  the  round  table  and,  in  a  list- 
less way,  pulls  the  pins  out  of  her  hat.]  I — I'll  be  toddling 
home   now.      [Tracing  a  pattern   on  the  crown  of  her  hat 

with  the   hat-pins.]    Home !    [Knitting  her  brows-] 

I    shall    clear    out    of    that — big — flashy — empty ! 

[Putting  on  her  hat.]    Ha,  ha  !     I  have  made  a  mash  of 


MID-CHANNEL  211 

it,  haven't  I?  My  father  always  said  I  was  a  heedless, 
irresponsible  little  puss.  [With  a  puzzled  look,  her  arms 
hanging  at  her  side. .]    There  was  a  lot  o'  good  in  me,  too 

—any  amount  o'  good ! 

[She   is   drawing  on  a  glove  when  she  turns  her 

head  in  the  direction  of  the  door  on  the  left. 

At  the  same  moment,  Leonard,  also  looking  at 

the  door,  gets  to  his  feet. 

Zoe. 

[Listening.]    What's  that,  dear  ? 

[He  tiptoes  to  the  door,  opens  it  an  inch  or  two, 
and  puts  his  ear  to  the  opening. 

Leonard. 
[Carefully  closing  the  door  and  turning  to  her.]  Blundell. 

Zoe.   ' 
[  Under  her  breath, .]    Oh ! 

Leonard. 
[In  a  whisper.']    Don't  worry.     I've  told  Rideout 


[There  is  a  pause.  They  stand  looking  at  each  other  in 
silence,  waiting.  Suddenly  Leonard  returns  to  the  door 
and,  without  opening  it,  listens  again.]  Curse  the  brute, 
he  won't  go  ! 

\_He  faces  her  irresolutely  and,  in  a  panic,  she 
picks  up  her  bag  and  her  other  glove  and  runs 
out  at  the  door  on  the  right.  Leonard  is  in 
the  middle  of  the  room  when  the  door  on  the  left 
is  thro7vn  open  and  Theodore  and  Peter 
enter  followed  by  Rideout.  Theodore  and 
Peter  have  their  hats  on. 

Rideout. 
[To  Leonard.]    I — I  beg  your  pardon,  sir 


212  MID-CHANNEL 

Leonard. 
[7i>  RlDEOUT.]    All  right. 

Theodore. 

[To  Peter,  with  a  hoarse  laugh.]    You  give  the  man 
half  a  sovereign,  Peter;  that'll  soothe  his  feelings. 

Peter. 

[To  Theodore,  sharply.']    Sssh,  sssh  !     Theo ! 

[Rideout  withdraws. 

Theodore. 
[Advancing  to  Leonard.]    Ho  !     Not  at  home,  hey  ? 

Leonard. 
[Facing  him.]    No,  I'm  not;  not  to  you. 

.  Peter. 
You  be  quiet,  Ferris. 

Leonard. 

[To  Theodore.]    What   the  devil  do  you  mean   by 
forcing  your  way  into  my  place  ? 

Theodore. 
[Raising  a  walking-cane  which  he  carries.]    You 


[Peter  quickly  puts  himself  between  the  two  men 
as  Leonard  seizes  the  chair  on  the  left  of  the 
round  table. 

Peter. 

[To  Theodore,  endeavoring  to  get  the  walking-cane 
from  him.]  Give  me  that.  [  To  Leonard.]  You  keep  a 
civil  tongue  in  your  head.  [To  Theodore.]  Give  it  me. 
[Holding  the  cane.]  You  know  what  you  promised.  Give 
it  up.  [Theodore  resigns  the  cane  to  Peter  and  walks 
away  to  the  fireplace  where  he  stands  with  his  back  to  the 
others.     Peter  lays  the  cane  upon  the  writing-table  and 


Ml D-  CHA  NNEL  2 1 3 

then  turns  to  Leonard.]  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  o' 
yourself.  [Lowering  his  voice.']  You  see  the  man's 
laborin'  under  great  excitement. 

Leonard. 

[Sullenly.]  I  dare  say  a  good  many  people  in  London 
are  laboring  under  excitement.  That's  no  reason  why 
they  should  have  the  run  of  my  flat. 

Peter. 

[Coolly.]  Will  you  oblige  me  by  sittin'  down  and 
listenin'  to  me  for  a  moment? 

Leonard. 

Any  man  who  treats  me  courteously'U  be  treated  cour- 
teously in  return.  [Sitting  in  the  chair  on  the  left  of  the 
round  table.]    I  can  do  with  you,  Peter. 

Peter. 

Can  you  ?  Then  you'll  be  so  kind  as  to  drop  ad- 
dressin'  me  by  my  Christian-name.  [Sitting  in  the  chair 
at  the  writing-table.]    Ferris 

Leonard. 
[Curling  his  lip.]    Yes,  Mister  Mottram? 

Peter. 

Mrs.  Blundell  called  upon  her  husband  to-day — this 
afternoon,  about  three  o'clock 

Leonard. 
[With  an  assumption  of  ease.]    Oh  ?    Did  she  ? 

Peter. 

And  made  a  communication  to  him — a  communication 
of  a  very  painful,  very  shockin'  character.  [A  pause]  I 
presoom  you  don't  require  me — or  Blundell — to  enter  into 
particklers  ? 


214  MID-CHANNEL 

Leonard. 
\_In  a  low  voice.~\    Oh,  for  heaven's  sake,  no. 

Peter. 

We  may  take  it,  without  goin'  further,  that  what  Mrs. 
Blundell  has  stated  is  absolutely  the  truth? 

Leonard. 

Absolutely.  \A  pause.  Theodore  moves  from  the 
fireplace  to  the  left-hand  window  and  stands  there  staring 
at  the  prospect.']  One  thing,  though,  she  mayn't  have 
stated  as  clearly  as  she  might 

Peter. 
What's  that? 

Leonard. 

That  she — that  she's  an  injured  woman — badly  dealt 
with  by  her  husband,  and  worse  by  your  humble  serv- 
ant ;  and 

Peter. 
And ? 

Leonard. 

And  that  both  Blundell  and  I  dam  well  deserve  to  be 
hanged.  [Theodore  turns  to  Leonard  fiercely. 

Peter. 

[  To  Theodore.]  Well!  Have  you  any  objection  to 
that? 

[Theodore  draws  himself  up,  as  if  to  retort ;  then 
his  body  relaxes  and  he  drops  into  the  chair  on 
the  left  of  the  window. 

Peter. 
[To  Leonard.]    Now,  then  !     Attend  to  me. 


MID-CHANNEL  215 

Leonard. 
Yes? 

Peter. 
Obviously  it's  impossible,  after  what's  transpired,  that 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Blundell  should  ever  live  together  again. 

Leonard. 

{Slightly  surprised]    She  didn't ? 

Peter. 

I  believe  there  was  an  idea  that  her  husband  should  go 
back  to  Lancaster  Gate.  {With  a  wave  of  the  hand] 
But  we  needn't  discuss  that.  We'd  better  come  at  once 
to  the  object  of  this  meetin'. 

Leonard. 

Object ? 

Peter. 

The  best  method  of  providin'  for  the  safety — and  hap- 
piness, we  hope — of  the  unfortunate  lady  who's  gone  and 
made  a  bit  of  a  munge  of  her  affairs. 

Leonard. 
{Steadily]   Yes? 

Peter. 

{Deliberately]  Ferris,  Mrs.  Blundell  has  given  her 
husband  to  understand  that,  if  existin'  obstacles  were  re- 
moved— if  she  were  a  free  woman,  in  point  o'  fact — you'd 
be  willin'  to  marry  her. 

Leonard. 
She's  correct. 

Peter. 
That  you're  keen  on  it. 


216  MID-CHANNEL 

Leonard. 
[With  a  nod.']    Keen  on  it. 

PETER. 

Good.  [Dropping  his  voice.']  We're  all  tiled  here. 
Are  you  prepared  to  give  Blundell  your  word  of — of ? 

Leonard. 

Honor?  Can't  you  say  it?  [Hotly.]  D'ye  think  that 
because  a  fellow's  done  a  scoundrelly  act  once  in  his 
life ! 

Peter. 

That'll  do — your  word  of  honor.  That  bein'  so,  Blun- 
dell undertakes,  on  his  part,  not  to  oppose  Mrs.  Blun- 
dell's  action  for  divorce.  On  the  contrary [Turn- 
ing to  Theodore.]   Theo ? 

Theodore. 
H'm? 

Peter. 
Your  word  of  honor? 

Theodore. 
[In  a  muffled  voice.']    My — word  of  honor. 

Peter. 
[To  Theodore    and  Leonard,    shortly.]    Thank' ee. 

And  both  of  you  empower  me  to — to  go  to  M  is.  Zoe ? 

[A  pause.     Peter  turns  to  Theodore.]    Eh  ? 

Theodore. 

Ves. 

Peter. 

[To    Leonard.]     And    you?     [Leonard    is    silent.] 
What's  the  matter  ? 


MID-  CHA  NNEL  2 1 7 

Leonard. 
[After  a  further  pause,  slowly.]     Look  here.      I  don't 
want  either  of  you  two  men  to  suspect  me  of — of  playing 
double 

Peter. 
Playing  double  ! 

Leonard. 
I  tell  you  honestly— Mrs.  Blundell— Mrs.  Blundell  de- 
clines  

Peter. 
Declines ? 

Leonard. 
Yes  ;  she— she  refuses [Theodore  rises. 

Peter. 
[Also  rising— to  Theodore.]    Sssh  !     You  keep  out  of 
it.    [  To  Leonard.]   Ah,  but  you  haven't  seen  Mrs.  Blun- 
dell since ? 

Theodore. 
[To   Peter,  prompting  him.]   Since   she   left   me  to- 
day   

Peter. 
[To  Leonard.]   Since  she  left  her  husband  this  after- 
noon— [a  pause]    have  you  ? 

Leonard. 
Y-yes ;  I  have. 

Theodore. 
[To  Peter.]  Where? 


218  MID-CHANNEL 

Peter. 
[  To  Leonard.]    Where  ?       [  There  is  a  further  silence. 

Theodore. 

[Under  his  breath.~\  What's  this  game,  Peter? 
[Loudly.]    What's  this  game  ? 

Peter. 

[Restraining  him.']  Don't  you  interfere.  [To  Leon- 
ard.]    Ferris 

Leonard. 

[Rising.-]  Mottram — Mrs.  Blundell  called  on  me — 
about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago.  We — we  were  talking 
the  matter  over  in  this  room  when  we  heard  Blundell 
kicking  up  a  riot  in  the  passage.  [Glancing  at  the  door  on 
the  right.]    She — she's  here.     [There  is  a  movement from 

Theodore.]    Mottram,  I  depend  on  you- 

[Peter  looks  at  Theodore  who,  in  obedience  to 
the  look,  goes  back  to  the  fireplace.  Leonard 
moves  to  the  door  on  the  right  and  then  turns. 

Leonard. 

[Speaking  across  the  room  to  Theodore.]  Blundell, 
I — I've  given  you  my  word  of  honor — and — and  I  abide 
by  Mrs.    Blundell's    decision.     [To   Peter,  pointing  to 

Theodore.]    Mottram,  I — I   depend  on  you [He 

opens    the    door   and    calls   softly?]     Mrs.    Blundell 

[There  is  no  response.]    Mrs.  Blundell 

Theodore. 

[Looking  down  into  the  grated]  Call  her  Zoe.  [Laugh- 
ing again  hoarsely,]  Why  the  devil  don't  you  call  her 
Zoe? 


:    D  '  CALXFOKfiLUj 

IX)S  ANGEUKS 


MID-CHANNEL  219 

Leonard. 


[Calling.']   Zoe 


[Still  obtaining  no  reply,  he  goes  into  the  next 
room.     Theodore  comes  to  Peter. 

Theodore. 
[  To  Peter.]   Some  game  up,  hey  ? 

Peter. 
Sssh,  sssh  t 

Theodore. 

What  is  it  ?    What  trick  is  she  up  to  now,  hey  ? 

[Leonard  reappears. 

Leonard. 

[Standing  in  the  doorway,  bewildered^]  I — I  can't  make 
it  out. 

Peter. 
What? 

Leonard. 
She — she's  not  there. 

Theodore. 
Ha!     Hooked  it? 

Leonard. 

[Looking  toward  the  balcony.]  She  must  have  gone 
along  the  balcony  without  our  noticing  her,  and  through 
the  kitchen.  [Looking  at  Peter.]  She  must  have  done 
so. 

Peter. 

Why? 


220  MID-CHANNEL 

Leonard. 
You  know  there's  no  other  door  — 


[He  crosses  to  the  door  on  the  left.  As  he  gets  to 
it,  it  opens  and  Rideout  presents  himself. 

RlDEOUT. 

[In  an  odd  voice.]   Sir 

Leonard. 

[To  Rideout,]    Has  anybody  passed  through  your 
kitchen  ? 

Rideout. 
N-no,  sir. 

Leonard. 
[After  a  pause,  sharply. ~\   What  d'ye  want  ? 

Rideout. 
There — there's  been  an  accident,  sir. 

Leonard. 

Accident ? 

[At  this  moment  Theodore  and  Peter  turn 
their  heads  toward  the  balcony  as  if  they  are 
listening  to  some  sounds  reaching  them  from  a 
distance.  Giving  Leonard  a  frightened  look, 
Rideout  withdraws  quickly.  Leonard  turns 
to  Theodore  and  Peter  in  time  to  see  them 
hurrying  on  to  the  balcony  through  the  left- 
hand,  window.  He  follows  them  as  far  as  the 
window  and  recoils  before  them  as  they  come 
back  into  the  room  after  looking  over  the  balus- 
trade. 

Theodore. 

[Staggering  to  the  door  on  the  left."]    Oh,  my  God  ;  oh, 
my  God  ;  oh,  my  God !  [He  disappears. 


MID-CHANNEL  221 

Leonard. 

[To  Peter,  shaking  a  trembling  hand  at  him]  An  ac- 
cident! It's  an  accident!  [Coming  to  Peter,  appeal- 
ingly.~\  An  accident ! 

Peter. 

Yes — an  accident [Gripping  Leonard's  artn.~\ 

She  told  me  once  it  would  be  in  the  winter  time ! 

[They  go  out  together. 


THE  END 


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